•      GIFT   OF 
MICHAEL  REESE 


POEMS 


AND 


PROSE  WRITINGS 


' POEMS 


AND 


PROSE    WRITIN  G  S. 


RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


BOSTON, 

RUSSELL,    ODJORNE,    AND    CO. 
1833. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1833, 

By  RUSSELL,  ODIORNE,  AND  Co. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


J.  D.   FREEMAN,   PUIXTEK. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  POEMS. 


ALTHOUGH  the  additions  here  made  to  the  first  edition 
of  the  Poems  are  considerable,  yet  being  in  their  poetical 
characteristics  essentially  the  same,  I  will  stop  to  make 
only  a  remark  or  two  upon  the  principal  of  them  —  "Fac 
titious  Life."  * 

Looking  at  the  more  serious  cast  of  thought  which  it 
gradually  takes,  and  particularly,  at  the  religious  character 
of  the  close,  some  may  think  it  would  have  been  more 
self-consistent,  had  there  been  less  of  a  light  manner  and 
homely  familiarity  in  the  setting  out. 

It  would  hardly  have  been  more  natural,  however ;  for, 
open  our  eyes  where  we  may,  they  soon  fall  on  the  homely 
or  trifling ;.  and  as  I  did  not  aim  at  form,  but  sirnpM  at 
following  on  after  Life,  making  some  passing  observations, 
and  such  reflections  as  might  flow  from  them,  if  tried  jpy 
these,  the  poem  will  be  found,  I  believe,  in  agreement  vptli 
the  course  of  life,  arid  congruous  with  itself. 

The  objection  of  others  may  lie  against  the  close,  as  of 
too  serious  a  character  to  grow  naturally  out  of  the  rest ; 
for  I  am  aware  of  the  influence  that  the  habitual  course  of 
our  feelings  and  associations  has  over  the  perceptions ; 
and  that  the  thoughts  of  men  are  too  apt  to  run  (contrary 
to  the  course  of  them  in  this  poem)  from  the  serious  to 
the  light:  I  am  sorry  for  it. 

In  fine,  there  is,  I  trust,  no  want  of  congruity  in  a  re 
flecting  mind,  if,  having  first  chanced  upon  the  trifling,  it 
falls  gradually  into  the  serious,  and  at  last  rests  in  that 
which  should  be  the  home  of  all  our  thoughts,  the  religious. 

*  See  note,  p.  450. 


VI  INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    POEMS. 

The  alterations  now  made  in  the  poems  of  the  first 
edition  are  of  too  minute  a  kind  to  deserve  particular  men 
tion.  Some  of  them  were  introduced  in  consequence  of 
remarks  which  I  occasionally  met  with  in  the  public 
notices.  Nor  have  I  distinguished  between  those  which 
were  made  in  a  friendly  and  those  made  in  a  detracting 
spirit.  Not  to  avail  one's  self  of  the  suggestions  of  a  friend 
argues  a  wilful  pertinacity,  and  to  refuse  to  gather  good 
out  of  the  censoriousness  of  an  enemy  savours  of  folly. 

Though  it  ill  becomes  an  honest  man  to  bestow  public 
commendation  through  mere  personal  partiality,  yet  fairly- 
intentioned  public  praise  affects  him  who  receives  it,  like 
an  act  of  personal  kindness  and  regard.  Within  the  few 
last  years  I  have  had  cause  to  feel  this  deeply ;  and  with 
out  affecting  humility,  let  me  add,  that  if  attended  with  any 
pain,  it  has  been  from  that  feeling  of  unworthiness  which 
commendation  oftentimes  occasions. 


PREFACE 

TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION    OF    THE    POEMS. 


IT  is  not  without  hesitation  that  I  give  this  small  volume 
to  the  public  ;  for  no  one  can  be  more  sensible  than  I  am 
how  much  is  required  to  the  production  of  what  may  be 
rightly  called  poetry.  It  is  true  that  something  resembling 
it  is  oftentimes  borne  into  instant  and  turbulent  popularity, 
while  a  work  of  genuine  character  may  be  lying  neglected 
by  all  except  the  poets.  But  the  tide  of  time  flows  on,  and 
the  former  begins  to  settle  to  the  bottom,  while  the  latter 
rises  slowly  and  steadily  to  the  surface,  and  goes  forward, 
for  a  spirit  is  in  it. 

It  is  a  poor  ambition  to  be  anxious  after  the  distinction 
of  a  day  in  that  which,  if  it  be  fit  to  live  at  all,  is  to  live  for 
ages.  It  is  wiser  than  all,  so  to  love  one's  art,  that  its  dis 
tinctions  shall  be  but  secondary :  and,  indeed,  he  who  is 
not  so  absorbed  in  it  as  to  think  of  his  fame  only  as  one  of 
its  accidents,  had  better  save  himself  his  toil  ;  for  the  true 
power  is  not  in  him.  Yet,  the  most  self-dependent  are 
stirred  to  livelier  action  by  the  hope  of  fame  ;  and  there  are 
none  who  can  go  on  with  vigour,  without  the  sympathy  of 
some  fe\v  minds  which  they  respect. 

I  will  not  say  of  my  first  tale,  as  Miss  Edgeworth  some 
times  does  of  her  improbabilities,  "This  is  a  fact;"  but 
thus  much  I  may  say  ;  there  are  few  facts  so  well  vouched 
for,  and  few  truths  so  fully  believed  in,  as  the  account 
upon  which  I  have  grounded  my  story. 

I  shall  not  name  the  island  off  our  New  England  coast 
upon  which  these  events  happened,  and  these  strange  ap 
pearances  were  seen  ;  for  islanders  are  the  most  sensitive 
creatures  in  the  world  in  all  that  relates  to  their  places  of 
abode. 


Vlll  PREFACE    TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION 

I  have  changed  the  time  of  the  action — which  was 
before  the  war  of  our  revolution  —  to  that  of  the  great 
contest  in  Spain  ;  as  the  reader  will  see,  in  my  making  use 
of  the  Christian  name  of  Lord  Wellington  in  a  way  to 
allude  to  the  popular  belief,  during  the  early  ages,  in  the 
return  of  King  Arthur  to  the  world.*  —  In  putting  my  hero 
on  horseback,  in  not  allowing  him  to  die  quietly  in  his 
bed,  and,  indeed,  in  whatever  I  thought  might  heighten 
the  poetical  effect  of  the  tale,  I  have  not  hesitated  to  depart 
from  the  true  account.  Nor  am  I  even  certain  that  I  have 
not  run  two  stories  into  one;  it  being  many  years  since 
these  wonderful  events  were  told  to  me.  I  mention  this, 
here,  lest  the  islanders  might  be  unnecessarily  provoked  at 
my  departures  from  the  real  facts,  when  they  come  to  read 
my  tale,  and  the  critics  be  put  to  the  trouble  of  useless  re 
search  in  detecting  mistakes. 

Of  the  second  story,  I  would  only  say,  that  having  in  it 
nothing  of  the  marvellous,  and  being  of  a  less  active  char 
acter  than  the  first,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed,  though  it 
should  not  be  generally  estimated  according  to  its  relative 
merit. 

Of  the  remaining  pieces,  the  first  four  have  appeared  in 
the  New-York  Review  ;  and  are  here  republished  with  the 
consent  of  my  friend  Bryant,  the  editor  of  that  late  work. 

One  of  these,  "  Fragment  of  an  Epistle,"  is  taken  from 
a  letter  which  I  wrote  to  amuse  myself  while  recovering 
from  a  severe  illness.  I  must  be  pardoned  giving  it  as  a 
fragment.  The  lines  are  much  more  broken  than  is  usual 
in  the  octo-syllabic  verse ;  though  Milton  has  taken  great 
liberties  in  this  respect  in  his  two  exquisite  little  poems  in 
the  same  measure.  This  he  could  have  done  neither 
through  ignorance  nor  carelessness.  Lord  Byron  has  justly 
spoken  of"  the  fata!  facility  "  of  this  measure ;  and  he  might 
as  truly  have  remarked  upon  its  fatal  monotony,  unless 
varied  in  all  possible  ways.  So  far  from  abrupt  pauses 

*  See  first  note,  p.  449. 


OF   THE    POEMS.  IX 

not  being  allowable  in  it,  there  is  scarcely  a  measure  in  the 
language  which  becomes  so  wearisome  without  them;  as 
every  one  must  have  experienced  in  reading  Scott,  not 
withstanding  his  rapidity  and  spirit.* 

I  am  fully  aware  of  the  truth  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
remark  in  his  admirable  Preface  to  his  History  of  the 
World:  —  "True  it  is  that  the  judgments  of  all  men  are 
not  agreeable  ;  nor  (which  is  more  strange)  the  affection  of 
any  one  man  stirred  up  alike  with  examples  of  like  nature  : 
But  every  one  is  touched  most  with  that  which  most 
nearly  seemeth  to  touch  his  own  private ;  or  otherwise 
best  suiteth  with  his  apprehension."  —  I  therefore  do  not 
look  to  see  all  pleased  ;  —  content  if  enough  are  gratified  to 
encourage  me  to  undertake  something  more  than  this  small 
beginning ;  which  is  of  size  sufficient,  if  it  should  fail  to  be 
thought  well  of,  and  large  enough  to  build  further  upon, 
should  it  be  liked.  Let  me  end,  then,  in  the  words  of  old 
Cowell :  —  "  that  which  a  man  saith  well,  is  not  to  be  re 
jected  because  he  hath  some  errors.  No  man,  no  book  is 
void  of  imperfections.  And,  therefore,  reprehend  who  will 
in  God's  name,  that  is  with  sweetness  and  without  re 
proach." 


*  See  second  note,  p.  449. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

Page. 

Buccaneer 1 

-  The  Changes  of  Home 33 

Factitious  Life •     59  X. 

Thoughts  on  the  Soul 

-iThe  Husband's  and  Wife's  Grave.  •  100 

-'The  Dying  Raven 105    « 

•• Fragment  of  an  Epistle -HO 

"The  Pleasure  Boat 115 

The  Early  Spring  Brook .     .  119 

"  The  Chanting  Cherubs."  125 

The  Moss  supplicateth  for  the  Poet .    127 

^  A  Clump  of  Daisies 131 

Chan  trey's  Washington 133 

^The  Little  Beach-Bird.  136    ' 

-Daybreak 138 


PROSE  WRITINGS. 

The  Writer  of  the  Idle  Man  to  his  Old  Friends.        .     .  «',     145 

"  Tom  Thornton ....  151 

-  Edward  and  Mary 

"  Paul  Felton -271 

.  The  Son 

A  Letter  from  Town 

"Musings 4°2 

A  Letter  from  Town 

s   Kean's  Acting 420 

Domestic  Life 

Notes.  449 


^E  Llflfl 


THE   BUCCANEER 


Boy  with  thy  blac  berd, 
I  rede  that  thou  blin, 
And  sone  set  the  to  shrive, 
With  sorrow  of  thi  syn  ; 
Ze  met  with  the  marchandes 
And  made  tham  ful  bare  ; 
It  es  gude  reason  and  right 
That  ze  evill  misfare. 

LAURENCE  MINOT. 


THE  island  lies  nine  leagues  away. 

Along  its  solitary  shore, 

Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 

No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 

Save,  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home. 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 

The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 

Sits  swinging  silently; 

How  beautiful !   no  ripples  break  the  reach, 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 


2  THE    BUCCANEER. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side; 

From  out  the  trees  the  sabbath  bell 

Rings  cheerful,  far  and  wide, 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks, 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks". 


5\Tor  holy  bell,  nor  pastoral  bleat 
t.;  r  ".I*i  former  days  within  the  vale; 

Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet; 

Curses  were  on  the  gale ; 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men; 
Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then. 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace, 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear; 

A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face, 

Subdued  and  holy  fear: 
Each  motion  gentle;   all  is  kindly  done  — 
Come,  listen,  how  from  crime  this  isle  was  won. 


THE    BUCCANEER. 


L 

Twelve  years  are  gone  since  Matthew  Lee 

Held  in  this  isle  unquestioned  sway; 

A  dark,  low,  brawny  man  was  he; 

His  law —  "It  is  my  way." 
Beneath  his  thick-set  brows  a  sharp  light  broke 
From  small  grey  eyes;  his  laugh  a  triumph  spoke. 

II. 

Cruel  of  heart,  and  strong  of  arm, 

Loud  in  his  sport,  and  keen  for  spoil, 

He  little  recked  of  good  or  harm, 

Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil; 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there  were: 
Speak  mildly,  when  he  would,  or  look  in  fear. 

III. 

Amid  the  uproar  of  the  storm, 
And  by  the  lightning's  sharp,  red  glare, 
Were  seen  Lee's  face  and  sturdy  form; 
His  axe  glanced  quick  in  air. 

Whose  corpse  at  morn  is  floating  in  the  sedge? 

There  's  blood  and  hair,  Mat,  on  thy  axe's  edge. 

IV. 

"  Nay,  ask  him  yonder;  let  him  tell; 

I  make  the  brute,  not  man,  my  mark. 

Who  walks  these  cliffs,  needs  heed  him  well! 

Last  night  was  fearful  dark. 
Think  ye  the  lashing  waves  will  spare  or  feel  ? 
An  ugly  gash!  —  These  rocks — they  cut  like  steel." 


4  THE    BUCCANEER. 

V. 

He  wiped  his  axe;   and  turning  round, 
Said  with  a  cold  and  hardened  smile, 
"  The  hemp  is  saved  —  the  man  is  drowned. 
Wilt  let  him  float  awhile  ? 

Or  give  him  Christian  burial  on  the  strand  ? 

He  '11  find  his  fellows  peaceful  'neath  the  sand." 

VI. 

Lee's  waste  was  greater  than  his  gain. 
"  I  '11  try  the  merchant's  trade,"  he  thought, 
"  Though  less  the  toil  to  kill,  than  feign, — 

Things  sweeter  robbed  than  bought. 
But,  then,  to  circumvent  them  at  their  arts!" 
Ship  manned,  and  spoils  for  cargo,  Lee  departs. 

VII. 

'T  is  fearful,  on  the  broad-backed  waves, 
To  feel  them  shake,  and  hear  them  roar: 
Beneath,  unsounded,  dreadful  caves; 
Around,  no  cheerful  shore. 

Yet  'mid  this  solemn  world  what  deeds  are  done ! 

The  curse  goes  up,  the  deadly  sea-fight 's  won;^- 

VIII. 

And  wanton  talk  and  laughter  heard, 
Where  speaks  God's  deep  and  awful  voice. 
There  's  awe  from  that  lone  ocean  bird: 
Pray  ye,  when  ye  rejoice! 

"Leave  prayers  to  priests,"  cries  Lee :  "  I  'm  ruler  here ! 
These  fellows  know  full  well  whom  they  should  fear!" 


THE  BUCCANEER. 

rx. 

The  ship  works  hard;  the  seas  run  high; 
Their  white  tops,  flashing  through  the  night, 
Give  to  the  eager,  straining  eye, 
A  wild  and  shifting  light. 

il  Hard  at  the  pumps! — The  leak  is  gaining  fast!  — 
Lighten  the  ship!  —  The  devil  rode  that  blast!  " 

X. 

Ocean  has  swallowed  for  its  food 

Spoils  thou  didst  gain  in  murderous  glee ; 

Mat,  could  its  waters  wash  out  blood, 

It  had  been  well  for  thee. 
Crime  fits  for  crime.     And  no  repentant  tear 
Hast  thou  for  sin? — Then  wait  thine  hour  of  fear. 

XI. 

The  sea  has  like  a  plaything  tossed 

That  heavy  hull  the  livelong  night. 

The  man  of  sin  —  he  is  not  lost: 

Soft  breaks  the  morning  light. 
Torn  spars  and  sails, — her  cargo  in  the  deep  — 
The  ship  makes  port  with  slow  and  laboring  sweep. 

XII. 

Within  a  Spanish  port  she  rides. 

Angry  and  soured,  Lee  walks  her  deck. 
"  Then  peaceful  trade  a  curse  betides?  — 

And  thou,  good  ship,  a  wreck! 
Ill  luck  in  change!  —  Ho!  cheer  ye  up,  my  men! 
Rigged,  and  at  sea,  we  '11  to  old  work  again! " 


6  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XIII. 

A  sound  is  in  the  Pyrenees! 

Whirling  and  dark,  comes  roaring  down 

A  tide,  as  of  a  thousand  seas, 

Sweeping  both  cowl  and  crown. 
On  field  and  vineyard,  thick  and  red  it  stood. 
Spain's  streets  and  palaces  are  wet  with  blood. — 

XIV. 

And  wrath  and  terror  shake  the  land; 

The  peaks  shine  clear  in  watchfire  lights; 

Soon  comes  the  tread  of  that  stout  band  — 

Bold  Arthur  and  his  knights. 
Awake  ye,  Merlin!     Hear  the  shout  from  Spain! 
The  spell  is  broke!  —  Arthur  is  come  again!  — 

XV. 

Too  late  for  thee,  thou  young,  fair  bride; 

The  lips  are  cold,  the  brow  is  pale, 

That  thou  didst  kiss  in  love  and  pride ; 

He  cannot  hear  thy  wail, 

Whom  thou  didst  lull  with  fondly  murmured  sound 
His  couch  is  cold  and  lonely  in  the  ground. 

XVI. 

He  fell  for  Spain  —  her  Spain  no  more ; 

For  he  was  gone  who  made  it  dear; 

And  she  would  seek  some  distant  shore, 

At  rest  from  strife  and  fear, 
And  wait  amid  her  sorrows  till  the  day 
His  voice  of  love  should  call  her  thence  away. 


THE    BUCCANEER. 
XVII. 

Lee  feigned  him  grieved,  and  bowed  him  low. 

'Twould  joy  his  heart  could  he  but  aid 

So  good  a  lady  in  her  woe, 

He  meekly,  smoothly  said. 
With  wealth  and  servants  she  is  soon  aboard, 
And  that  white  steed  she  rode  beside  her  lord. 

XVIII. 

The  sun  goes  down  upon  the  sea; 

The  shadows  gather  round  her  home. 
"  How  like  a  pall  are  ye  to  me! 

My  home,  how  like  a  tomb! 

O!  blow,  ye  flowers  of  Spain,  above  his  head. — 
Ye  will  not  blow  o'er  me  when  I  am  dead." 

XIX. 

And  now  the  stars  are  burning  bright; 
Yet  still  she  's  looking  toward  the  shore 
Beyond  the  waters  black  in  night. 
"  I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more! 

Ye  're  many,  waves,  yet  lonely  seems  your  flow; 

And  I'm  alone — scarce  know  I  where  I  go." 

XX. 

Sleep,  sleep,  thou  sad  one,  on  the  sea! 

The  wash  of  waters  lulls  thee  now; 

His  arm  no  more  will  pillow  thee, 

Thy  fingers  on  his  brow. 
He  is  not  near,  to  hush  thee,  or  to  save. 
The  ground  is  his  —  the  sea  must  be  thy  grave. 


THE    BUCCANEER. 

XXI. 

The  moon  comes  up;  the  night  goes  on. 

Why,  in  the  shadow  of  the  mast, 

Stands  that  dark,  thoughtful  man  alone? 

Thy  pledge,  man;  keep  it  fast! 
Bethink  thee  of  her  youth  and  sorrows,  Lee; 
Helpless,  alone  —  and,  then,  her  trust  in  thee. 

XXII. 

When  told  the  hardships  thou  hadst  borne, 

Her  words  to  thee  were  like  a  charm. 

With  uncheered  grief  her  heart  is  worn;  — 

Thou  wilt  not  do  her  harm! 
He  looks  out  on  the  sea  that  sleeps  in  light, 
And  growls  an  oath  —  "  It  is  too  still  to-night!  " 

XXIII. 

He  sleeps;  but  dreams  of  massy  gold, 

And  heaps  of  pearl.     He  stretched  his  hands. 

He  hears  a  voice  —  "  111  man,  withhold!  " 

A  pale  one  near  him  stands. 
Her  breath  comes  deathly  cold  upon  his  cheek; 
Her  touch  is  cold.  —  He  wakes  with  piercing  shriek. 

XXIV. 

He  wakes;  but  no  relentings  wake 

Within  his  angry,  restless  soul. 
"  What,  shall  a  dream  Mat's  purpose  shake? 

The  gold  will  make  all  whole. 

Thy  merchant  trade  had  nigh  unmanned  thee,  lad! 
What,  balk  my  chance  because  a  woman's  sad?" 


THE    BUCCANEER.  9 

XXV. 

He  cannot  look  on  her  mild  eye; 

Her  patient  words  his  spirit  quell. 

Within  that  evil  heart  there  lie 

The  hates  and  fears  of  hell. 
His  speech  is  short;   he  wears  a  surly  brow. 
There  's  none  will  hear  her  shriek.  What  fear  ye  now  ? 

XXVI. 

The  workings  of  the  soul  ye  fear; 

Ye  fear  the  power  that  goodness  hath; 

Ye  fear  the  Unseen  One,  ever  near, 

Walking  his  ocean  path. 

From  out  the  silent  void  there  comes  a  cry  — 
' e  Vengeance  is  mine !  Thou,  murderer,  too  shalt  die  !" 

XXVII. 

Nor  dread  of  ever-during  woe, 

Nor  the  sea's  awful  solitude, 

Can  make  thee,  wretch,  thy  crime  forego. 

Then,  bloody  hand,  — to  blood! 
The  scud  is  driving  wildly  over  head  ; 
The  stars  burn  dim;  the  ocean  moans  its  dead. 

XXVIII. 

Moan  for  the  living;  moan  our  sins,  — 

The  wrath  of  irian,  more  fierce  than  thine. 

Hark!  still  thy  waves!  —  The  work  begins — 

Lee  makes  the  deadly  sign. 

The  crew  glide  down  like  shadows.     Eye  and  hand 
Speak  fearful  meanings  through  that  silent  band. 


10  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XXIX. 

They  're  gone.  —  The  helmsman  stands  alone; 

And  one  leans  idly  o'er  the  bow. 

Still  as  a  tomb  the  ship  keeps  on; 

Nor  sound  nor  stirring  now. 
Hush,  hark!  as  from  the  centre  of  the  deep- 
Shrieks  — fiendish  yells !  They  stab  them  in  their  sleep ! 

XXX. 

The  scream  of  rage,  the  groan,  the  strife, 

The  blow,  the  gasp,  the  horrid  cry, 

The  panting,  throttled  prayer  for  life, 

The  dying's  heaving  sigh, 

The  murderer's  curse,  the  dead  man's  fixed,  still  glare, 
And  fear's  and  death's  cold  sweat — they  all  are  there ! 

XXXI. 

On  pale,  dead  men,  on  burning  cheek, 
On  quick,  fierce  eyes,  brows  hot  and  damp, 
On  hands  that  with  the  warm  blood  reek, 
Shines  the  dim  cabin  lamp. 

Lee  looked.     "  They  sleep  so  sound,"  he,  laughing, 
said, 

"  They'll  scarcely  wake  for  mistress  or  for  maid." 

XXXII. 

A  crash!     They  've  forced  the  door,  —  and  then 
One  long,  long,  shrill,  and  piercing  scream 
Comes  thrilling  through  the  growl  of  men. 
'Tis  hers!— O  God,  redeem 

From  worse  than  death  thy  suffering-,  helpless  child  ! 

That  dreadful  shriek  again  — sharp,  sharp,  and  wild  ! 


THE    BUCCANEER*  11 

If  T  J  7v  T  ^  •'  V  " 
XXXIII.      \V 

It  ceased.  —  With  speed  o'  th5  lightning's  flash, 
A  loose-robed  form,  with  streaming  hair, 
Shoots  by.  — A  leap  —  a  quick,  short  splash! 
'T  is  gone!  —  There's  nothing  there! 

The  waves  have  swept  away  the  bubbling  tide. 

Bright-crested  waves,  how  calmly  on  they  ride! 

XXXIV. 

She  's  sleeping  in  her  silent  cave, 
Nor  hears  the  stern,  loud  roar  above, 
Nor  strife  of  man  on  land  or  wave. 
Young  thing!  her  home  of  love 

She  soon  has  reached!  —  Fair,  unpolluted  thing! 

They  harmed  her  not!  —  Was  dying  suffering? 

XXXV. 

O,  no!  —  To  live  when  joy  was  dead; 

To  go  with  one,  lone,  pining  thought  — 

To  mournful  love  her  being  wed  — 

Feeling  what  death  had  wrought; 
To  live  the  child  of  woe,  yet  shed  no  tear, 
Bear  kindness,  and  yet  share  no  joy  nor  fear; 

XXXVI. 

To  look  on  man,  and  deem  it  strange 
That  he  on  things  of  earth  should  brood, 
When  all  its  thronged  and  busy  range 
To  her  was  solitude  — 

O  this  was  bitterness!      Death  came  and  pressed 
Her  wearied  lids,  and  brought  her  sick  heart  rest. 


12  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XXXVII. 

Why  look  ye  on  each  other  so, 

And  speak  no  word?  —  Ay,  shake  the  head! 

She  's  gone  where  ye  can  never  go. 

What  fear  ye  from  the  dead  ? 
They  tell  no  tales;   and  ye  are  all  true  men; 
But  wash  away  that  blood;  then,  home  again!  — 

XXXVIII. 

'T  is  on  your  souls;  it  will  not  out! 

Lee,  why  so  lost?     'T  is  not  like  thee  ! 

Come,  where  thy  revel,  oath,  and  shout? 
"  That  pale  one  in  the  sea!  — 
I  mind  not  blood.  —  But  she  —  I  cannot  tell! 
A  spirit  was  't?  —  it  flashed  like  fires  of  hell!  — 

XXXIX. 

"  And  when  it  passed  there  was  no  tread! 
It  leapt  the  deck.  —  Who  heard  the  sound? 
I  heard  none!  —  Say,  what  was  it  fled?  — 
Poor  girl!  —  And  is  she  drowned?  — 
Went  down  these  depths?  How  dark  they  look,  and  cold! 
She  's  yonder !  stop  her !  —  Now !  —  there !  —  hold  her, 
hold!  " 

XL. 

They  gazed  upon  his  ghastly  face. 
"  What  ails  thee,  Lee;  and  why  that  glare?  " 
"  Look!  ha,  't  is  gone,  and  not  a  trace! 

No,  no,  she  was  not  there!  — 
Who  of  you  said  ye  heard  her  when  she  fell? 
'Twas  strange !— 1  '11  not  be  fooled !  — Will  no  one  tell  ?' ' 


THE    BUCCANEER.  13 

XLI. 

He  paused.     And  soon  the  wildness  past. 

Then  came  the  tingling  flush  of  shame. 

Remorse  and  fear  are  gone  as  fast. 
"  The  silly  thing  's  to  blame 
To  quit  us  so.     'Tis  plain  she  loved  us  not; 
Or  she'd  have  stayed  awhile,  and  shared  my  cot." 

XLTI. 

And  then  the  ribald  laughed.     The  jest, 

Though  old  and  foul,  loud  laughter  drew; 

And  fouler  yet  came  from  the  rest 

Of  that  infernal  crew. 

Note,  heaven,  their  blasphemy,  their  broken  trust! 
Lust  panders  murder  —  murder  panders  lust! 

XLIII. 

Now  slowly  up  they  bring  the  dead 

From  out  that  silent,  dim-lit  room. 

No  prayer  at  their  quick  burial  said; 

No  friend  to  weep  their  doom. 
The  hungry  waves  have  seized  them  one  by  one,' 
And,  swallowing  down  their  prey,  go  roaring  on. 

XLIV. 

Cries  Lee,  "  We  must  not  be  betrayed. 
'Tis  but  to  add  another  corse! 

Strange  words,  5t  is  said,  an  ass  once  brayed: 

I  '11  never  trust  a  horse! 

Out !  throw  him  on  the  waves  alive !     He  '11  swim ; 
For  once  a  horse  shall  ride;  we  all  ride  him." 


14  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XLV. 

Such  sound  to  mortal  ear  ne'er  came 

As  rang  far  o'er  the  waters  wide. 

It  shook  with  fear  the  stoutest  frame : 

The  horse  is  on  the  tideT 
As  the  waves  leave,  or  lift  him  up,  his  cry 
Comes  lower  now,  and  now  't  is  near  and  high. 

XLVI. 

And  through  the  swift  wave's  yesty  crown 
His  scared  eyes  shoot  a  fiendish  light, 
And  fear  seems  wrath.     He  now  sinks  down, 
Now  heaves  again  to  sight, 

Then  drifts  away ;  and  through  the  night  they  hear 
Far  off  that  dreadful  cry.  —  But  morn  is  near. 

XLVII. 

O,  had'st  thou  known  what  deeds  were  done, 
When  thou  wast  shining  far  away, 
Would'st  thou  let  fall,  calm-coming  sun, 
Thy  warm  and  silent  ray? 

The  good  are  in  their  graves;  thou  canst  not  cheer 
Their  dark,  cold  mansions:  Sin  alone  is  here. 

XLVIII. 

"  The  deed's  complete!  The  gold  is  ours! 

There,  wash  away  that  bloody  stain! 

Pray  who  'd  refuse  what  fortune  showers? 

Now,  lads,  we  '11  lot  our  gain. 
Must  fairly  share,  you  know,  what 's  fairly  got? 
A  truly  good  night's  work!  Who  says  'twas  not?" 


THE    BUCCANEER.  15 

XLIX. 

There  's  song,  and  oath,  and  gaming  deep,. 

Hot  words,  and  laughter,  mad  carouse; 

There  's  nought  of  prayer,  and  little  sleep; 

The  devil  keeps  the  house! 

"  Leecheats!"  cried  Jack.    Lee  struck  him  to  the  heart. 
"That  'sfoul!  "  one  muttered. —  "  Fool  .'you  take  your 
part!  — 

L. 

"  The  fewer  heirs  the  richer,  man! 

Hold  forth  thy  palm,  and  keep  thy  prate! 

Our  life,  we  read,  is  but  a  span. 

What  matters,  soon  or  late  ?  " 
And  when  on  shore,  and  asked,  Did  many  die? 
"  Near  half  my  crew,  poor  lads!  "  he 'd  say,  and  sigh, 

LI. 

Within  our  bay,  one  stormy  night, 
The  isle-men  saw  boats  make  for  shore, 
With  here  and  there  a  dancing  light, 
That  flashed  on  man  and  oar. 

When  hailed,  the  rowing  stopt,  and  all  was  dark. 

"Ha!  lantern-work!  —  We  '11  home!  They  Jre  playino- 
shark!" 

LI  I. 

Next  day,  at  noon-time,  toward  the  town, 
All  stared  and  wondered  much  to  see, 
Mat  and  his  men  come  strolling  down. 
The  boys  shout,  "  Here  comes  Lee!  " 
Thy  ship,  good  Lee  ?  "  Not  many  leagues  from  shore 
Our  ship  by  chance  took  fire." — They  learnt  no  more. 


16  THE  BUCCANEER. 

Lin. 

He  and  his  crew  were  flush  of  gold. 
"  You  did  not  lose  your  cargo,  then?  " 
"  Learn  where  all  's  fairly  bought  and  sold, 

Heaven  prospers  those  true  men. 
Forsake  your  evil  ways,  as  we  forsook 
Our  ways  of  sin,  and  honest  courses  took! 

LIV. 

"  Wouldst  see  my  log-book?     Fairly  writ. 
With  pen  of  steel,  and  ink  of  blood! 
How  lightly  doth  the  conscience  sit! 
Learn,  truth  's  the  only  good." 
And  thus,  with  flout,  and  cold  and  impious  jeer 
He  fled  repentance,  if  he  'scaped  not  fear. 

LV. 

Remorse  and  fear  he  drowns  in  drink. 
"  Come,  pass  the  bowl,  my  jolly  crew! 

It  thicks  the  blood  to  mope  and  think. 

Here's  merry  days,  though  few!  " 
And  then  h?  quaffs.  —  So  riot  reigns  within; 
So  brawl  and  laughter  shake  that  house  of  sin. 

LVI. 

Mat  lords  it  now  throughout  the  isle. 

His  hand  falls  heavier  than  before. 

All  dread  alike  his  frown  or  smile. 

None  come  within  his  door, 

Save  those  who  dipped  their  hands  in  blood  with  him ; 
Save  those  who  laughed  to  see  the  white  horse  swim 


THE    BUCCANEER.  17 

LV1I. 

"  To  night's  our  anniversary; 

And,  mind  me,  lads,  we  '11  have  it  kept 

With  royal  state  and  special  glee ! 

Better  with  those  who  slept 

Their  sleep  that  night,  had  he  be  now,  who  slinks! 
And  health  and  wealth  to  him  who  bravely  drinks!  " 

LVIII. 

The  words  they  speak,  we  may  not  speak. 

The  tales  they  tell,  we  may  not  tell. 

Mere  mortal  man,  forbear  to  seek 

The  secrets  of  that  hell! 

Their  shouts  grow  loud :— 'T  is  near  mid-hour  of  night : 
What  means  upon  the  waters  that  red  light  ? 

LIX. 

Not  bigger  than  a  star  it  seems: 
And,  now,  't  is  like  the  bloody  moon: 
And,  now,  it  shoots  in  hairy  streams 
Its  light!  —  'T  will  reach  us  soon! 

A  ship!  and  all  on  fire!  — hull,  yards,  and  mast! 

Her  sheets  are  sheets  of  flame!  —  She's  nearing  fast! 

LX. 

And  now  she  rides,  upright  and  still, 

Shedding  a  wild  and  lurid  light 

Around  the  cove,  on  inland  hill, 

Waking  the  gloom  of  night. 
All  breathes  of  terror!  men,  in  dumb  amaze, 
Gaze  on  each  other  'neath  the  horrid  blaze. 


13  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXI. 

It  scares  the  sea-birds  from  their  nests; 

They  dart  and  wheel  with  deaf'ning  screams; 

Now  dark,  —  and  now  their  wings  and  breasts 

Flash  back  disastrous  gleams. 
O,  sin,  what  hast  thou  done  on  this  fair  earth? 
The  world,  O  man,  is  wailing  o'er  thy  birth. 

LXII. 

And  what  comes  up  above  the  wave, 
So  ghastly  white  ?  —  A  spectral  head !  — 
A  horse's  head!  —  (May  heaven  save 
Those  looking  on  the  dead,— 

The  waking  dead!)     There,  on  the  sea,  he  stands  — 
The  Spectre-Horse !  —  He  moves ;  he  gains  the  sands ! 

^  LXIII. 

Onward  he  speeds.     His  ghostly  sides 

Are  streaming  with  a  cold,  blue  light. 

Heaven  keep  the  wits  of  him  who  rides 

The  spectre-horse  to-night ! 
His  path  is  shining  like  a  swift  ship's  wake; 
Before  Lee's  door  he  gleams  like  day's  gray  break. 


The  revel  now  is  high  within; 

It  breaks  upon  the  midnight  air. 

They  little  think,  mid  mirth  and  din, 

What  spirit  waits  them  there. 
As  if  the  sky  became  a  voice,  there  spread 
A  sound  to  appal  the  living,  stir  the  dead. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  19 

LXV. 

The  spirit-steed  sent  up  the  neigh. 

It  seemed  the  living  trump  of  hell, 

Sounding  to  call  the  damned  away, 

To  join  the  host  that  fell. 
It  rang  along  the  vaulted  sky:  the  shore 
Jarred  hard,  as  when  the  thronging  surges  roar. 

LXVI. 

It  rang  in  ears  that  knew  the  sound; 

And  hot,  flushed  cheeks  are  blanched  with  fear. 

And  why  does  Lee  look  wildly  round? 

Thinks  he  the  drowned  horse  near  ? 
He  drops  his  cup  —  his  lips  are  stiff  with  fright. 
Nay,  sit  thee  down!     It  is  thy  banquet  night. 

LXVII. 

"  I  cannot  sit.     I  needs  must  go: 

The  spell  is  on  my  spirit  now. 

I  go  to  dread  —  I  go  to  woe!  " 

O,  who  so  weak  as  thou, 

Strong  man! — His  hoofs  upon  the  door-stone,  see, 
The  shadow  stands !  —  His  eyes  are  on  thee,  Lee  ! 

LXVIII. 

Thy  hair  pricks  up !  —  "  O,  I  must  bear 

His  damp,  cold  breath !     It  chills  my  frame  ! 

His  eyes  —  their  near  and  dreadful  glare 

Speak  that  I  must  not  name!  " 

Thou  'rt  mad  to  mount  that  horse  !  —  "A  power  within, 
I  must  obey  —  cries,  '  Mount  thee,  man  of  sin  !'  " 


20  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXIX. 

He 's  now  upon  the  spectre's  back,  f 

With  rein  of  silk,  and  curb  of  gold. 

'Tis  fearful  speed  !  — the  rein  is  slack 

Within  his  senseless  hold; 

Upborne  by  an  unseen  power,  he  onward  rides. 
Yet  touches  not  the  shadow-beast  he  strides. 

LXX. 

He  goes  with  speed;  he  goes  with  dread! 

And  now  they  're  on  the  hanging  steep ! 

And,  now !  the  living  and  the  dead, 

They  '11  make  the  horrid  leap  ! 

The  horse  stops  short:  —  his  feet  are  on  the  verge. 
He  stands,  like  marble,  high  above  the  surge. 

LXXI. 

And,  nigh,  the  tall  ship  yet  burns  on, 

With  red,  hot  spars  and  crackling  flame. 

From  hull  to  gallant,  nothing  's  gone. 

She  burns,  and  yet's  the  same! 
Her  hot,  red  flame  is  beating,  all  the  night, 
On  man  and  horse,  in  their  cold,  phosphor  light. 

LXII. 

Through  that  cold  light  the  fearful  man 

Sits  looking  on  the  burning  ship. 

He  ne'er  again  will  curse  and  ban. 

How  fast  he  moves  the  lip! 
And  yet  he  does  not  speak,  or  make  a  sound! 
What  se-e  you,  Lee?  the  bodies  of  the  drowned? 


THE    BUCCANEER.  21 

LXXIII. 

"  I  look,  where  mortal  man  may  not  — 

Into  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 

I  see  the  dead,  long,  long  forgot; 

I  see  them  in  their  sleep. 

A  dreadful  power  is  mine,  which  none  can  know, 
Save  he  who  leagues  his  soul  with  death  and  woe." 

LXXIV. 

Thou  mild,  sad  mother  —  waning  moon, 

Thy  last,  low,  melancholy  ray 

Shines  towards  him.  —  Quit  him  not  so  soon! 

Mother,  in  mercy,  stay! 

Despair  and  death  are  with  him;   and  canst  thou, 
With  that  kind,  earthward  look,  go  leave  him  now? 

LXXV. 

O,  thou  wast  born  for  things  of  love; 

Making  more  lovely  in  thy  shine 

Whate'er  thou  look'st  on.     Hosts  above, 

In  that  soft  light  of  thine, 

Burn  softer: — earth,  in  silvery  veil,  seems  heaven. 
Thou'rt  going  down!  —  hast  left  him  unforgiven! 

LXXVI. 

The  far,  low  west  is  bright  no  more. 

How  still  it  is!     No  sound  is  heard 

At  sea,  or  all  along  the  shore, 

But  cry  of  passing  bird. 

Thou  living  thing,  —  and  dar'st  thou  come  so  near 
These  wild  and  ghastly  shapes  of  death  and  fear? 


22  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXXVII. 

Now  long  that  thick,  red  light  has  shone 
On  stern,  dark  rocks,  and  deep,  still  bay, 
On  man  and  horse  that  seem  of  stone, 
So  motionless  are  they. 
But  now  its  lurid  fire  less  fiercely  burns: 
The  night  is  going  —  faint,  gray  dawn  returns. 

LXXVIII. 

That  spectre-steed  now  slowly  pales; 

Now  changes  like  the  moonlit  cloud; 

That  cold,  thin  light,  now  slowly  fails, 

Which  wrapt  them  like  a  shroud. 
Both  ship  and  horse  are  fading  into  air.  — 
Lost,  mazed,  alone,  see,  Lee  is  standing  there! 

LXXIX. 

The  morning  air  blows  fresh  on  him; 

The  waves  dance  gladly  in  his  sight ; 

The  sea-birds  call,  and  wheel  and  skim  — 

O,  blessed  morning  light! 
He  doth  not  hear  their  joyous  call;  he  sees 
No  beauty  in  the  wave;  nor  feels  the  breeze. 

LXXX. 

For  he 's  accursed  from  all  that 's  good; 

He  ne'er  must  know  its  healing  power. 

The  sinner  on  his  sins  must  brood, 

And  wait,  alone,  his  hour. 
A  stranger  to  earth's  beauty  —  human  love, 
There  's  here  no  rest  for  him,  no  hope  above  ! 


THE    BUCCANEER.  23 

LXXXI. 

The  hot  sun  beats  upon  his  head. 

He  stands  beneath  its  broad,  fierce  blaze, 

As  stiff  and  cold  as  one  that 's  dead: 

A  troubled,  dreamy  maze 
Of  some  unearthly  horror,  all  he  knows  — 
Of  some  wild  horror  past,  and  coming  woes. 

LXXXIL 

The  gull  has  found  her  place  on  shore; 

The  sun  gone  down  again  to  rest; 

And  all  is  still  but  ocean's  roar: 

There  stands  the  man  unblest. 
But,  see,  he  moves  —  he  turns,  as  asking  where 
His  mates!  —  Why  looks  he  with  that  piteous  stare? 

LXXXIII. 

Go,  get  thee  home,  and  end  thy  mirth ! 

Go,  call  the  revellers  again! 

They're  fled  the  isle;   and  o'er  the  earth 

Are  wanderers,  like  Cain. 
As  he  his  door-stone  past,  the  air  blew  chill. 
The  wine  is  on  the  board;  Lee,  take  thy  fill ! 

LXXXIV. 

"  There  's  none  to  meet  me,  none  to  cheer: 
The  seats  are  empty  —  lights  burnt  out; 
And  I  alone,  must  sit  me  here: 
Would  I  could  hear  their  shout !  " 

He  ne'er  shall  hear  it  more  —  more  taste  his  wine ! 

Silent  he  sits  within  the  still  moonshine. 


24  THE    BUCCANEER. 

LXXXV. 

Day  came  again;  and  up  he  rose, 

A  weary  man  from  his  lone  board; 

Nor  merry  feast,  nor  sweet  repose 

Did  that  long  night  afford. 

No  shadowy-coming  night,  to  bring  him  rest  — 
No  dawn,  to  chase  the  darkness  of  his  breast! 

LXXXVI. 

He  walks  within  the  day 's  full  glare 
A  darkened  man.     Where'er  he  comes, 
All  shun  him.     Children  peep  and  stare; 
Then,  frightened,  seek  their  homes. 

Through  all  the  crowd  a  thrilling  horror  ran. 

They  point  and  say  —  "  There  goes  the  wicked  man  !" 

LXXXVII. 

He  turns,  and  curses  in  his  wrath 
Both  man  and  child;  then  hastes  away 
Shoreward,  or  takes  some  gloomy  path; 
But  there  he  cannot  stay: 

Terror  and  madness  drive  him  back  to  men; 

His  hate  of  man  to  solitude  again. 

LXXXVIII. 

Time  passes  on,  and  he  grows  bold  — 

His  eye  is  fierce,  his  oaths  are  loud; 

None  dare  from  Lee  the  hand  withhold; 

He  rules  and  scoffs  the  crowd. 
But  still  at  heart  there  lies  a  secret  fear; 
For  now  the  year's  dread  round  is  drawing  near. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  25 

LXXXIX. 

He  swears,  but  he  is  sick  at  heart; 

He  laughs,  but  he  turns  deadly  pale; 

His  restless  eye  and  sudden  start  — 

These  tell  the  dreadful  tale 
That  will  be  told:   it  needs  no  words  from  thee, 
Thou  self-sold  slave  to  fear  and  misery. 

XC. 

Bond-slave  of  sin,  see  there  —  that  light! 
"  Ha!  take  me  — take  me  from  its  blaze  !  " 

Nay,  thou  must  ride  the  steed  to-night ! 

But  other  weary  days 

And  nights  must  shine  and  darken  o'er  thy  head, 
Ere  thou  shalt  go  with  him  to  meet  the  dead. 

XCI. 

Again  the  ship  lights  all  the  land; 

Again  Lee  strides  the  spectre-beast; 

Again  upon  the  cliff  they  stand. 

This  once  he  '11  be  released  !  — 
Gone  horse  and  ship;  but  Lee's  last  hope  is  o'er; 
Nor  laugh,  nor  scoff,  nor  rage,  can  help  him  more. 

XCII. 

His  spirit  heard  that  spirit  say, 
"  Listen !  — I  twice  have  come  to  thee. 

Once  more  —  and  then  a  dreadful  way  ! 

And  thou  must  go  with  me !" 
Ay,  cling  to  earth  as  sailor  to  the  rock  ! 
Sea-swept,  sucked  down  in  the  tremendous  shock, 


26  THE    BUCCANEER. 

XCIII. 

He  goes  !  —  So  thou  must  loose  thy  hold, 

And  go  with  Death;  nor  breathe  the  balm 

Of  early  air,  nor  light  behold, 

Nor  sit  thee  in  the  calm 

Of  gentle  thoughts,  where  good  men  wait  their  close. 
In  life,  or  death,  where  look'st  thou  for  repose? 

XCIV. 

Who 's  sitting  on  that  long,  black  ledge, 
Which  makes  so  far  out  in  the  sea, 
Feeling  the  kelp-weed  on  its  edge? 
Poor,  idle  Matthew  Lee ! 
So  weak  and  pale?     A  year  and  little  more, 
And  bravely  did  he  lord  it  round  this  shore  ! 

XCV. 

And  on  the  shingles  now  he  sits, 

And  rolls  the  pebbles  'neath  his  hands; 

Now  walks  the  beach;  then  stops  by  fits, 

And  scores  the  smooth,  wet  sands; 
Then  tries  each  cliff,  and  cove,  and  jut,  that  bounds 
The  isle ;  then  home  from  many  weary  rounds. 

XCV1. 

They  ask  him  why  he  wanders  so, 
From  day  to  day,  the  uneven  strand  t 
"  I  wish,  I  wish  that  I  might  go  ! 

But  I  would  go  by  land; 

And  there 's  no  way  that  I  can  find —  I  've  tried 
All  day  and  night ! "  —  He  seaward  looked  and  sighed. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  27 

XCVII. 

It  brought  the  tear  to  many  an  eye, 
That,  once,  his  eye  had  made  to  quail. 
"  Lee,  go  with  us;   our  sloop  is  nigh; 
Come  !  help  us  hoist  her  sail." 

He  shook.  —  "  You  know  the  spirit-horse  I  ride  ! 

He  '11  let  me  on  the  sea  with  none  beside !  " 

XCVIII. 

He  views  the  ships  that  come  and  go. 

Looking  so  like  to  living  things. 

O !   'tis  a  proud  and  gallant  show 

Of  bright  and  broad-spread  wings, 
Making  it  light  around  them,  as  they  keep 
Their  course  right  onward  through  the  unsounded  deep. 

XCIX. 

And  where  the  far-off  sand-bars  lift 
Their  backs  in  long  and  narrow  line, 
The  breakers  shout,  and  leap,  and  shift, 
And  send  the  sparkling  brine 
Into  the  air;  then  rush  to  mimic  strife:  — 
Glad  creatures  of  the  sea,  and  full  of  life  !  — 

C. 

But  not  to  Lee.     He  sits  alone; 

No  fellowship  nor  joy  for  him. 

Borne  down  by  woe,  he  makes  no  moan, 

Though  tears  will  sometimes  dim 
That  asking  eye.  —  O,  how  his  worn  thoughts  crave  — 
Not  joy  again,  but  rest  within  the  grave. 


28  THE    BUCCANEER. 

CI. 

The  rocks  are  dripping  in  the  rnist 

That  lies  so  heavy  off  the  shore ; 

Scarce  seen  the  running  breakers;  —  list 

Their  dull  and  smothered  roar  ! 
Lee  hearkens  to  their  voice.  —  "I  hear,  I  hear 
You  call.  —  Not  yet !  —  I  know  my  time  is  near  !  " 

OIL 

And  now  the  mist  seems  taking  shape, 
Forming  a  dirn,  gigantic  ghost,  — 
Enormous  thing  !  —  There  's  no  escape; 
'Tis  close  upon  the  coast. 

Lee  kneels,  but  cannot  pray.  —  Why  mock  him  so? 

The  ship  has  cleared  the  fog,  Lee,  see  her  go ! 

cm. 

A  sweet,  low  voice,  in  starry  nights, 

Chants  to  his  ear  a  plaining  song; 

Its  tones  come  winding  up  the  heights, 

Telling  of  woe  and  wrong; 
And  he  must  listen  till  the  stars  grow  dim, 
The  song  that  gentle  voice  doth  sing  to  him. 

CIV. 

O,  it  is  sad  that  aught  so  mild 

Should  bind  the  soul  with  bands  of  fear; 

That  strains  to  soothe  a  little  child, 

The  man  should  dread  to  hear  ! 

But  sin  hath  broke  the  world's  sweet  peace  —  unstrung 
The  harmonious  chords  to  which  the  angels  sung. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  29 

CV. 

In  thick,  dark  nights  he  'd  take  his  seat 

High  up  the  cliffs,  and  feel  them  shake, 

As  swung  the  sea  with  heavy  beat 

Below  —  and  hear  it  break 

With  savage  roar,  then  pause  and  gather  strength, 
And  then,  come  tumbling  in  its  swollen  length. 

CVI. 

But  he  no  more  shall  haunt  the  beach, 

Nor  sit  upon  the  tall  cliff's  crown, 

Nor  go  the  round  of  all  that  reach, 

Nor  feebly  sit  him  down, 

Watching  the  swaying  weeds:  —  another  day, 
And  he  '11  have  gone  far  hence  that  dreadful  way. 

CVII. 

To  night  the  charmed  number  's  told. 
"  Twice  have  I  come  for  thee,"  It  said. 
"  Once  more,  and  none  shall  thee  behold. 

Come  !  live  one,  to  the  dead  !  "  — 
So  hears  his  soul,  and  fears  the  coming  night; 
Yet  sick  and  weary  of  the  soft,  calm  light. 

CVIII. 

Again  he  sits  within  that  room; 

All  day  he  leans  at  that  still  board; 

None  to  bring  comfort  to  his  gloom, 

Or  speak  a  friendly  word. 

Weakened  with  fear,  lone,  haunted  by  remorse, 
Poor,  shattered  wretch,  there  waits  he  that  pale  horse. 


30  THE    BUCCANEER. 

CIX. 

Not  long  he  waits.     Where  now  are  gone 
Peak,  citadel,  and  tower,  that  stood 
Beautiful,  while  the  west  sun  shone, 
And  bathed  them  in  his  flood 

Of  airy  glory  ?  —  Sudden  darkness  fell; 

And  down  they  went,  peak,  tower,  citadel. 

CX. 

The  darkness,  like  a  dome  of  stone, 

Ceils  up  the  heavens.  —  'Tis  hush  as  death - 

All  but  the  ocean's  dull,  low  moan. 

How  hard  Lee  draws  his  breath ! 

He  shudders  as  he  feels  the  working  Power. 

Arouse  thee,  Lee  !  up  !  man  thee  for  thine  hour  ! 

CXI. 

'  T  is  close  at  hand;  for  there,  once  more, 
The  burning  ship.     Wide  sheets  of  flame 
And  shafted  fire  she  showed  before ;  — 
Twice  thus  she  hither  came;  — 
But  now  she  rolls  a  naked  hulk,  and  throws 
A  wasting  light;  then,  settling,  down  she  goes. 

CXII. 

And  where  she  sank,  up  slowly  came 

The  Spectre-Horse  from  out  the  sea. 

And  there  he  stands !     His  pale  sides  flame. 

He  '11  meet  thee  shortly,  Lee. 
He  treads  the  waters  as  a  solid  floor: 
He  's  moving  on.     Lee  waits  him  at  the  door. 


THE    BUCCANEER.  31 

CXIII. 

They  're  met.  —  "I  know  thou  com'st  for  me," 

Lee's  spirit  to  the  spectre  said; 
"  I  know  that  I  must  go  with  thee  — 

Take  me  not  to  the  dead. 
It  was  not  I  alone  that  did  the  deed !  " 
Dreadful  the  eye  of  that  still,  spectral  steed! 

CXIV. 

Lee  cannot  turn.     There  is  a  force 
In  that  fixed  eye,  which  holds  him  fast. 
How  still  they  stand  !  —  the  man  and  horse. 
"  Thine  hour  is  almost  past." 

"  O,  spare  me,"  cries  the  wretch,  "  thou  fearful  One  !  " 
"  My  time  is  full  — I  must  not  go  alone." 

cxv. 

"  I  'm  weak  and  faint.     O,  Jet  me  stay  !  " 
"  Nay,  murderer,  rest  nor  stay  for  thee  !  " 
The  horse  and  man  are  on  their  way; 
He  bears  him  to  the  sea. 
Hark !  how  the  spectre  breathes  through  this  still 

night ! 
See,  from  his  nostrils  streams  a  deathly  light ! 

CXVI. 

He  's  on  the  beach;  but  stops  not  there  * 

He  's  on  the  sea !  —  that  dreadful  horse  ! 

Lee  flings  and  writhes  in  wild  despair !  — 

In  vain  !     The  spirit-corse 
Holds  him  by  fearful  spell;  — he  cannot  leap. 
Within  that  horrid  light  he  rides  the  deep. 


32  THE    BUCCANEER. 

CXVII. 

It  lights  the  sea  around  their  track  — 
The  curling  comb,  and  dark  steel  wave: 
There,  yet,  sits  Lee  the  Spectre's  back  — 
Gone  !  gone  !  and  none  to  save  ! 

They're  seen  no  more;  the  night  has  shut  them  in. 

May  heaven  have  pity  on  thee,  man  of  sin  ! 

CXVIII. 

The  earth  has  washed  away  its  stain; 

The  sealed  up  sky  is  breaking  forth, 

Mustering  its  glorious  hosts  again, 

From  the  far  south  and  north; 
The  climbing  moon  plays  on  the  rippling  sea. 
—  O,  whither  on  its  waters  rideth  Lee  ? 


THE   CHANGES   OF    HOME. 


If  it  he  life  to  wear  within  myself 

This  barrenness  of  spirit,  and  to  be 

My  own  soul's  sepulchre.  BTROH. 

For  hours  she  sate  ;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  beat  quick. 

WORDSWORTH. 


Pine  not  away  for  that  which  cannot  be. 

THE  PINNBR  OF  WAKEFIJBLD. 


THE  Vale  was  beautiful;  and,  when  a  child, 
I  felt  its  sunny  peace  come  warm  and  mild 
To  my  young  heart.     Within  high  hills  it  slept, 
Which  o'er  its  rest  their  silent  watches  kept, 
And  gave  it  kindly  shelter,  as  it  lay 
Like  a  fair,  happy  infant  in  its  play. 
The  dancing  leaves,  the  grain  that  gently  bent 
In  early  light,  as  soft  winds  o'er  it  went; 
The  new-fledged,  panting  bird,  in  low,  short  flight, 
That  filled  my  little  bosom  with  delight, 


34  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

Yet  mixed  with  fear,  lest  that  some  unseen  harm 
Should  spoil  its  just-born  joy  —  all  these  a  charm 
Threw  round  my  morn  of  being.  —  Here  I've  stood, 
Where  from  its  covert  in  the  thick  boughed  wood, 
The  slender  rill  leaped  forth,  with  its  small  voice, 
Into  the  light,  as  seeming  to  rejoice 
That  it  was  free;   and  then  it  coursed  away, 
With  grass,  and  reeds,  and  pebbles  holding  play. 

It  seemed  the  Vale  of  Youth!  —  of  youth  untried, 
Youth  in  its  innocence,  and  in  its  pride  — 
In  its  new  life  delighted;  free  from  fears, 
And  griefs,  and  burdens,  borne  on  corning  years. 

Such  was  the  Vale.     And  then  within  it  played 
Edward,  a  child,  and  Jane,  a  little  maid. 
I  see  them  now  no  more,  where  once  they  stood 
Beside  the  brook,  or  'neath  the  sloping  wood. 
The  brook  flows  lonely  on;   o'er  mimic  mound 
No  longer  made  to  leap  with  fairy  bound. 
Then,  as  they  built  the  little  dam  and  mill, 
Their  tongues  went  prattling  with  the  prattling  rill, 
As  if  the  babes  and  stream  were  playmates  three, 
With  cheerful  hearts,  and  singing  merrily. 
The  tiny  labor's  o'er;  the  song  is  done 
The  children  sang;  the  rill  sings  on  alone. 

How  like  eternity  doth  nature  seem 
To  life  of  man  —  that  short  and  fitful  dream! 
I  look  around  me;   no  where  can  I  trace 
Lines  of  decay  that  mark  our  human  race. 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  35- 

These  are  the  murmuring  waters,  these  the  flowers 
I  mused  o'er  in  my  earlier,  better  hours. 
Like  sounds  and  scents  of  yesterday  they  come.  — 
Long  years  have  past  since  this  was  last  my  home  ! 
And  I  am  weak,  and  toil-worn  is  my  frame ; 
But  all  the  vale  shuts  in  is  still  the  same: 
'Tis  I  alone  am  changed;   they  know  rne  not: 
I  feel  a  stranger,  or  as  one  forgot. 

The  breeze  that  cooled  my  warm  and  youthful  brow, 
Breathes  the  same  freshness  on  its  wrinkles  now. 
The  leaves  that  flung  around  me  sun  and  shade, 
While  gazing  idly  on  them  as  they  played, 
Are  holding  yet  their  frolic  in  the  air; 
The  motion,  joy,  and  beauty  still  are  there  — 
But  not  for  me  !  —  I  look  upon  the  ground: 
Myriads  of  happy  faces  throng  me  round, 
Familiar  to  my  eye;  yet  heart  and  mind 
In  vain  would  now  the  old  communion  find. 
Ye  were  as  living,  conscious  beings,  then, 
With  whom  I  talked  —  but  I  have  talked  with  men! 
With  uncheered  sorrow,  with  cold  hearts  have  met; 
Seen  honest  minds  by  hardened  craft  beset; 
Seen  hope  cast  down,  turn  deathly  pale  its  glow; 
Seen  virtue  rare,  but  more  of  virtue's  show. 

Yet  there  was  one  true  heart:  that  heart  was  thine, 
Fond  Emmeline  —  O  God  !  it  once  was  mine. 
It  beats  no  more.     That  fierce  and  cruel  blow, 
It  struck  me  down,  it  laid  my  spirit  low  ! 


36  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

No  feeble  grief  that  sobs  itself  to  rest, 
Benumbing  grief,  and  horrors  filled  my  breast: 
Dark  death,  and  sorrow  dark,  and  terror  blind  — 
They  made  iny  soul  to  quail,  they  shook  my  mind  — 

0  !  all  was  wild  —  wild  as  the  driving  wind. 
The  storm  went  o'er  me.     Once  again  I  stand 

Amid  God's  works  —  his  broad  and  lovely  land. 
It  is  not  what  it  was  —  no,  not  to  me; 

1  cannot  feel,  though  lovely  all  I  see; 
A  void  is  in  my  soul ;  my  heart  is  dry : 

They  touch  me  not  — these  things  of  earth  and  sky. 
E'en  grief  hath  left  me  now;  my  nerves  are  steel; 
Dim,  pangless  dreams  rny  thoughts:  —  Would  I  could 

feel ! 

O,  look  on  me  in  kindness,  sky  and  earth; 
We  were  companions  almost  from  my  birth. 
Yet  once  more  stir  within  me  that  pure  love. 
Which  went  with  me  by  fountain,  hill  and  grove. 
Delights  I  ask  not  of  ye;    let  me  weep 
Over  your  beauties;  let  your  spirit  sweep 
Across  this  dull,  still  desert  of  the  mind; 
O,  let  me  with  you  some  small  comfort  find ! 
The  world,  the  world  has  stript  me  of  my  joy. 
Bless  me  once  more;  ye  blest  me  when  a  boy. 

Where  are  the  human  faces  that  I  knew? 
All  changed;   and  even  of  the  changed  how  few  ! 
No  tongue  to  give  me  welcome,  bid  me  rest, 
In  sounds  to  stir  the  heart,  like  one  new  blest. 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  37 

There  stands  my  home  —  no  more  my  home ;  and  they 
Who  loved  me  so  —  they,  too,  have  past  away. 
The  sun  lies  on  the  door-sill,  where  my  book 
I  daily  read,  and  fitted  line  and  hook, 
And  shaped  my  bow;  or  dreamed  myself  a  knight 
By  lady  loved,  by  champion  feared  iu  fight. 
—  Gone  's  thy  fantastic  dream;  thy  lance  is  broke, 
Thy  helmet  cleft !  —  No  knight  that  struck  the  stroke. 
'T  was  Time,  who  his  strong  hand  upon  thee  laid, 
Unhorsed  thee,  boy,  and  spoiled  thee  of  thy  maid. 

Thus  stood  I  yesterday;   and  years  far  gone, 
Present  and  coming  years  to  me  were  one; 
And  long  have  been  so;  for  the  musing  see 
Inward,  and  time  they  make  eternity; 
Or  put  the  present  distant,  till  it  blends 
With  sad,  past  thoughts,  or  bright  ones  that  hope  sends. 

While  dreaming  so,  I  saw  an  aged  man 
Draw  near.     He  bowed  and  spoke;  and  I  began  — 

"  Canst  tell  me,  friend,  I  pray,  whose  home  may  be 
The  ancient  house  beneath  that  old,  gray  tree? " 

"  They  are  a  stranger  race;   and  since  they  came 
We  've  learned  but  little.  —  Spencer  is  the  name. 
'T  was  rumored  round  they  better  days  had  known; 
And  we,  in  pity,  would  have  kindness  shown  — 
Kindness  of  fellowship;  not  proffered  aid, 
To  be  with  forced  and  humbling  thanks  repaid. 


38  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

We  saw  they  liked  it  not.     A  show  of  scorn 
Was  in  their  smile.     O  !  they  were  higher  born; 
And  sought  out  our  retirement  where  to  hide 
Their  fortune's  fall." 

"  They  should  have  hid  their  pride; 
Should  have  subdued  it  rather.     'Tis  a  thorn 
That  frets  the  heart;    a  chain  it  is  that 's  worn 
On  man's  free  motions,  making  him  the  slave 
Of  those  he  hates,  because  he  dares  not  brave;  — 
The  shrewd  man's  sober  scorn,  the  idler's  jeer; 
Bound  to  the  shame  of  which  he  lives  in  fear." 

"  Ay  !  on  its  neighbour,  too,  it  shuts  the  door, 
As  that  is  shut.     It  was  not  so  before; 
For  there,  with  wife  and  son,  did  Dalton  dwell. 
'Twas  cheerful  welcome  then  and  kind  farewell; 
Farewell  so  kind  —  that  dwelt  so  on  the  heart, 
You  'd  wish  to  meet,  were  't  but  again  to  part. 
—  The  pair  within  the  silent  grave  are  laid." 

*'  But  he,  their  son?     They  had  a  son,  you  said? }: 

"  A  rich  relation  saw  the  boy  had  mind. 
«  Such  minds  a  market  in  the  world  must  find;  '  — 
So  said  he.  —  '  And  the  boy  must  learning  have; 
For  learning,  power,  and  wealth  and  honors  gave.' 
'Mind  and  a  market !  —  Will  he  sell  the  child 
As  slaves  are  sold? '  they  ask.     The  uncle  smiled. 
'  And  does  not  Nathan  teach  to  read  and  write, 
To  spell  and  cipher  —  letters  to  indite? 


THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME.  39 

What 's  learning,  then,  that  he  must  needs  go  seek 
So  far  from  home? '  —  '  They  call  it  Latin  —  Greek.' 
Wisely  all  farther  question  they  forebore; 
And  looked  profound,  though  puzzled  as  before. 

"  The  years  past  on.     Kind,  frequent  letters  came. 
Which  showed  the  man  and  boy  in  heart  the  same; 
By  a  hard  world  not  hardened,  nor  yet  vain 
That  much  he  knew,  nor  proud  with  all  his  gain. 

"  And  he  his  own  green  vale  would  see  again, 
And  playmate  boys,  now  turned  to  thoughtful  men. 
But  ere  the  time,  a  fever,  like  a  blast, 
Swept  through  the  vale  ;  and  fearful,  sudden,  fast, 
It  struck  down  young  and  old.  —  To  see  them  fall, 
But  not  the  hand  that  smote  them,  shook  us  all. 
It  took  the  parents  in  their  hopes  and  joy  — 
They  went,  and  never  saw  again  their  boy." 

"But  he?" 

"  Within  his  grief  there  lived  a  power, 
Withheld  him  —  that  withholds  him  to  this  hour. 
Though  of  his  marriage  first  there  went  a  tale, 
Yet  soon  a  mournful  story  reached  our  vale. 
A  cloud  shut  out  the  light  that  brightly  shone, 
Set  him  in  darkness,  sorrowing  and  alone. 
Thy  cheek  is  sudden  pale  !  thine  eye  is  dim  ! 
Thou  art  not  well !  " 

"  Nay,  on  !  say,  what  of  him?  " 


40  THE    CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

"  No  more  is  known.     Time  has  assuaging  balm; 
And  time  the  tossing  of  the  mind  can  calm. 
But  there  's  a  silent  grief  that  knows  no  close, 
Till  death  has  laid  us  down  to  long  repose. 
That  sleep  may  now  be  his;  or  he  may  go 
In  search  of  rest;  no  rest  on  earth  to  know. 

"  But  why  so  sad?     Why  should  a  stranger  grieve 
When  strangers  mourn?  O!  all  must  mourn  who  live!" 

"  Thon  sayest  true.  And  grief  makes  strangers  kin. 
'T  is  thine  from  crime  and  sorrow  man  to  win, 
To  preach,  woe  came  with  sin  —  was  kindly  given 
To  touch  our  hearts  and  lead  us  back  to  heaven: — 
For  such  thy  garb  bespeaks  thee;   and  though  old, 
Thine  air,  thy  talk  seem  slowly  to  unfold 
One  who  within  this  vale,  in  manhood's  prime, 
Lifted  the  lowly  soul  to  thoughts  sublime." 

"  And,  stranger,  who  art  thou,  that,  in  such  tones, 
Greet'st  me  as  one  who  old  acquaintance  owns? 
Thy  face  is  as  a  book  I  cannot  read ; 
Nor  does  thy  voice  my  spirit  backward  lead, 
Stirring  old  thoughts." 

"  Nay,  nay,  thou  look'st  in  vain  ! 
This  face  —  it  bears  the  sea's  and  desert's  stain; 
And  yet,  both  boy  and  man,  I  'm  in  thy  mind. 
Canst  nothing  here  of  Harry  Dalton  find  ? " 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 


L 

OF.  THE 


He  looked  again.     A  gleam  of  joy 
An  instant  gleam,  then  sank  in  sad  repose; 
For  lines  he  saw  of  trouble,  more  than  age  — 
That  words  of  grief  were  written  on  the  page. 
Then  laughing  eyes  and  cheeks  of  youthful  glow 
Came  to  his  mind,  and  grief  that  it  was  so 
That  joy  and  youth  so  soon  away  should  go. 

He  gave  his  hand,  but  nothing  either  said, 
And  slowly  turning,  homeward  silent  led. 

At  our  repast  words  few  and  low  we  spoke: 
Silence,  it  seemed,  not  lightly  to  be  broke. 
But  soon  upon  our  thoughtful  minds  there  stole, 
Converse  that  gently  won  the  saddened  soul. 

Then  towards  the  village  we  together  walked, 
And  of  old  friends  and  places  much  we  talked. 
And  who  had  died,  who  left  them  he  would  tell; 
And  who  still  in  their  fathers'  mansions  dwell. 

We  reached  a  shop.     No  lettered  sign  displayed 
The  owner's  name,  or  told  the  world  his  trade. 
But  on  its  door  cracked,  rusty  hinges  swung; 
And  there  a  hook  or  well  worn  horseshoe  hung. 
The  trough  was  dry;  the  bellows  gave  no  blast; 
The  hearth  was  cold;  no  sparks  flew  red  and  fast; 
Labor's  strong  arm  had  rested.     Where  was  he, 
Brawny  and  bare,  who  toiled,  and  sang  so  free? 


42  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

But  soon  we  came  where  sat  an  aged  man. 
His  thin  and  snow-white  locks  the  breezes  fan, 
While  he  his  long  staff  fingered,  as  he  spoke 
In  sounds  so  low,  they  scarce  the  stillness  broke. 

"  Good  father  !  "  said  my  guide.     He  raised  his 

head, 

As  asking  who  had  spoke;  yet  nothing  said. 
"  The  present  is  a  dream  to  his  worn  brain; 
And  yet  his  mind  does  things  long  past  retain." 

My  friend  then  questioned  him  of  former  days, 
Mingling  with  what  he  asked  some  little  praise. 
His  old  eyes  cleared;  a  smile  around  them  played, 
As  on  my  friend  his  shaking  hand  he  laid, 
And  spoke  of  early  prowess.     Friends  he  named; 
And  some  he  praised:  —  they  were  but  few  he  blamed. 

"  Dost  thou  remember  Dalton?  "  asked  my  guide. 

"Dalton?     Full  well!     His  little  son  beside. — 
A  waggish  boy  !  —  It  will  not  from  my  thought  — 
His  curious  look  as  I  my  iron  wrought. 
And,  as  the  fiery  mass  took  shape,  his  smile 
Made  me  forget  my  labor  for  awhile. 
Before  he  left  us,  and  when  older  grown, 
He  told  of  one  who  out  from  heaven  was  thrown, 
Who  forged  huge  bolts  of  thunder  when  he  fell; 
One-eyed  his  workmen,  and  his  shop  a  hell; 
So,  called  me  Vulcan." 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  43 

"  Vulcan  !  —  John  !  art  thou? 
What !   long-armed  John,  with  moist  and  smutty 
brow?  " 

He  gazed  on  me,  half  wondering  and  half  lost. 
Something  it  could  not  grasp  his  mind  had  crossed. 
A  moment's  struggle  in  his  face  betrayed 
The  effort  of  the  brain;  and  then  he  said, 
Eager  and  quick  —  "  What  !  corne?  —  Where, 

where  's  the  boy  ? 

And  looks  the  same  ?     'T  will  give  his  parents  joy  ?  " 
Then  talked  he  to  himself.     His  eyes  grew  dead; 
He  felt  his  hands;  nor  did  he  raise  his  head, 
Nor  miss  us  as  we  parted,  on  our  way 
Along  the  street  where  the  close  village  lay. 

To  pass  the  doors  where  I  had  welcomed  been, 
And  none  but  unknown  voices  hear  within; 
Strange,  wondering  faces  at  those  windows  see, 
Once  lightly  tapped,  and  then  a  nod  for  me  !  — 
To  walk  full  cities,  and  yet  feel  alone  — 
From  day  to  day  to  listen  to  the  moan 
Of  mourning  trees  —  'twas  sadder  here  unknown  ! 

The  village  past,  we  came  where  stood  aloof 
An  aged  cot  with  low  and  broken  roof. 
The  sun  upon  its  walls  in  quiet  slept; 
Close  by  its  door  the  stream  in  silence  crept; 
No  rustling  birds  were  heard  among  the  trees, 
Which  high  and  silent  stood  as  slept  the  breeze. 


44  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

The  cot  wide  open ;  yet  there  came  no  sound 
Of  busy  steps:  —  'twas  all  in  stillness  bound: 
Awful,  yet  lovely  stillness,  as  a  spell, 
On  this  sweet  rest  and  mellow  sunshine  fell. 

And  there,  at  the  low  door  so  fixed  is  one, 
As  if  for  years  she  'd  borne  with  rain  and  sun, 
All  mindless  of  herself,  and  lost  in  thought 
Which  to  her  soul  a  far-off  image  brought. 
About  her  shoulders  hangs  her  long,  white  hair; 
She  clasps  the  post  with  lingers  pale  and  spare, 
And  forward  leans. 

"  What  sees  she  in  those  hills?  " 

"  'Tis  a  vain  fancy  that  her  vision  fills. 
Or,  rather,  nothing  sees  she:     Hope  delayed, 
Worn,  feeble  hope,  which  long  her  mind  has  swayed  — 
Born  and  to  die  in  grief — the  hope  she  knows; 
A  something  gathered,  midst  her  cherished  woes, 
From  sad  remembrances,  from  wishes  vain  — 
Dim  fiction  of  the  mind  to  ease  its  pain." 

"  Her  name,  I  pray  thee  !  " 

"  Dost  thou  wish  to  hear 
Of  two  true  lovers,  Jane,  and  Edward  Vere?  " 

"What,  she!  and  look  so  old?  —  And  can  it  be 
That  woe  has  done  so  well  time's  work  with  thee!" 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  45 

"  It  struck  her  in  her  youth,  as  doth  the  blast 
The  opening  flower;   and  then  she  withered  fast." 

"  I  fain  would  know  her  story." 

"Soon  'tis  told  — 

Simple  though  sad;  no  mystery  to  unfold, 
Save  that  one  great,  dread  mystery  — the  mind, 
Which  thousands  seek,  but  few  in  part  can  find. 

"  We  '11  rest  ushere,  beneath  this  broad  tree's  shade ; 
The  sun  is  hot  upon  the  open  glade." 

"  A  little  farther!  —  Let  us  not  obtrude 
Upon  her  sorrows'  holy  solitude." 

"  She  marks  us  not:     The  curious  passer-by, 
Children  who  pause,  and  know  not  why  they  sigh  — 
Unheeded  all  by  that  fixed,  gleamy  eye. 
But  to  her  story. 

"She  and  that  fair  boy 

Shared  with  each  other  childhood's  griefs  and  joy. 
Their  studies  one.     Then,  as  they  homeward  went 
With  busy  looks,  on  little  schemes  intent, 
Their  earnest,  happy  voices  might  be  heard 
Along  the  lane  where  sang  the  evening  bird. 
—  Why  should  I  speak  of  what  you  know  so  well? 
What  chanced  when  you  had  left  us  let  me  tell. 


46  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

cc  Time  changes  innocence  to  virtues  strong, 
Or  mars  the  man  with  passions  foul  and  wrong. 
To  warm  and  new  emotions  time  gives  life, 
Fluttering  the  heart  in  strange  yet  pleasing  strife, 
Filling  the  quickened  mind  with  visions  fair  — 
Hues  like  bright  clouds,  that  rest,  like  clouds,  on  air, 
Deepening  each  feeling  of  the  impassioned  soul, 
Round  one  loved  object  gathering  then  the  whole. 
So  deepened,  strengthened,  formed,  the  love  that  grew 
From  childhood  up,  and  bound  in  one  the  two. 
So  opened  their  fresh  hearts,  as  to  the  sun 
The  young  buds  open  :    life  was  just  begun. 
For  this  it  is  to  live  —  the  stir  to  feel 
Of  hopes,  fears,  wishes,  sadness,  joy  —  the  zeal 
Which  bands  us  one  in  life,  death,  woe  and  weal. 
And  life  it  is,  when  a  soft,  inward  sense 
Pervades  our  being,  when  we  draw  from  hence 
Delights  unutterable,  thoughts  that  throw 
Unearthly  brightness  round  this  world  below; 
Making  each  common  day,  each  common  thing, 
Something  peculiar  to  our  spirit  bring." 

I  saw  in  him  a  gentler  sense  that  played 
'  Mid  saddened  thoughts  on  this  once  young,  fair  maid, 
As  plays  the  little  child,  unconscious  why 
The  rich,  black  pall,  and  that  long,  tremulous  sigh. 

"  Thy  talk  of  love,"  said  I,  cc  restores  thy  youth. 
'Tis  true,  decay,  nor  age  awaits  on  truth; 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  47 

And  he  who  keeps  a  simple  heart  and  kind, 
May  something  there  of  early  feelings  find. 
For  in  all  innocent  and  tender  hearts 
A  spirit  dwells  that  cheerful  thoughts  imparts; 
'  Mong  sorrows,  sunny  blessings  it  bestows 
On  those  who  think  upon  another's  woes." 

My  friend  went  on. 

"  At  length  drew  near  the  time 
That  he  must  travel  to  some  distant  clime 
In  search  of  gain.     'A  few  short  years  away,' 
He  fondly  said,  <  and  then  the  happy  day; 
And  long,  bright  days — all  bright,  without  a  cloud!  '  — 
They  never  came;  and  he  is  in  his  shroud. 
She  gazed  up  in  his  hopeful  face  and  tried 
To  share  his  hope;  then  hung  on  him  and  sighed. 
Her  cheek  turned  pale,  and  her  dark  eye  grew  dim; 
And  then  through  tears  again  she  'd  look  on  him. 
In  his  full,  clear,  blue  eye  an  answering  tear 

Spoke  comfort;  for  it  told  that  she  was  dear 

That  love  was  strong  as  hope;  that  though  it  grew 
'Mid  thoughts  less  sad  than  her's,  'twas  no  less  true, 
And  that  in  his  bold,  free,  and  cheerful  mind, 
Her  timid  love  its  home  would  always  find. 

"  The  last  day  came  —  a  long,  sad,  silent  day, 
It  shone  on  two  sick  hearts.     He  must  away. 
Ah!  then  he  felt  how  hard  it  is  to  go 
From  one  so  dear,  and  leave  to  lonely  woe 


48  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

A  spirit  yearning  for  its  place  of  rest, 
Of  kindly  sympathies  —  a  lover's  breast. 

"  And  he  is  gone  far  o'er  the  foaming  wave. 
<  Spare  him  ye  dark,  wild  waters!  Heaven  him  save!' 
So  prayed  she ;  and  the  earnest  prayer  was  heard. 
A  year  past  by ;  —  he  came  before  the  third. 

£  <  Then  from  the  sealed  up  heart,  joy  gushed  once  more, 
For  he  had  come  —  come  from  the  stranger's  shore, 
To  his  own  vale,  and  through  the  ocean's  roar. 

"  Ah  !  sweet  it  is,  to  gaze  upon  the  face 
Long  seen  but  by  the  mind,  to  fondly  trace 
Each  look  and  smile  again.  — T  is  life  renewed  — 
How  fresh  !  How  dim  was  that  by  memory  viewed  ! 
And,  oh,  how  pines  the  soul;  how  doth  it  crave 
Only  a  moment's  look  !     ;T  is  in  the  grave  - 
That  lovely  face;  no  more  to  bless  thine  eyes. 
Nay,  wait,  thou  'It  meet  it  soon  in  yonder  skies. 

"  The  throbbing  pulse  beats  calm  again;  and  they, 
Too  deeply  happy  to  be  loud  or  gay, 
Through  all  their  childhood's  walks  —  the  lane,  the 

grove  — 

Along  the  silvery  rill,  would  slowly  move, 
Mingling  their  hopes' bright  lights,  with  soft'ning  shades 
That  memory  threw  'inong  hill  tops,   streams,  and 
glades; 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  49 

For  love  is  meditative;  close  it  clings, 

And  thoughtful,  to  earth's  simple,  silent  things. 

c£  And  thus  they  wandered;  nearer  heart  to  heart; 
For  they  had  known  how  hard  it  is  to  part ; 
To  live  in  love,  yet  no  communion  hold  — 
Day  following  day,  yet  all  we  feel  untold. 

"  And  she  would  listening  sit,  and  hear  him  speak 
Of  fierce  and  tawny  Turk,  and  handsome  Greek, 
Of  the  young  crescent  moon  on  sullen  brow  — 
The  cross  of  Christ  profaned  and  made  to  bow. 
—  And  what !  Shall  he  who  hung  above  our  head 
That  gentle  light,  see  that  whereon  he  bled, 
Bend  to  the  image  of  the  thing  he  framed? 
Throng  to  the  cross!  Our  Saviour's  cross  is  shamed! 

"  He  spoke  of  men  of  far  more  distant  climes. 
Their  idol  worship  stained  with  fearful  crimes; 
Of  manners  strange  and  dresses  quaint  would  tell; 
But  most  upon  the  sea  he  loved  to  dwell  — 
Its  deep,  mysterious  voice,  its  maddened  roar, 
Its  tall,  strong  waves,  the  white  foam,  and  the  shore, 
The  curse  that  on  its  gloomy  spirit  hung  — 
'  Thou  ne'er  shalt  sleep  ! '  —  through  all  its  chambers 

rung; 

Till  closer  to  his  side  she  'd  trembling  draw, 
As  if  some  dim  and  fearful  thing  she  saw;  — 
So  would  this  awful  mystery  fold  her  round  : 
She  quailed  as  though  she  heard  the  very  sound. 
4 


50  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

11  'And  must  you  on  the  heaving  sea  again  — 
Mighty  destroyer,  deep,  broad  grave  of  men  ?  ' 
(  This  once  ! '  said  he,  —  f  no  more  !  '  —  She  raised 

her  eyes 

To  his.  —  Her  voice  upon  her  pale  lip  dies. 
Her  first-felt  sorrow  came  upon  her  mind, 
And  back  she  shrunk,  as  shrinks  he  whom  they  bind 
Once  more  upon  the  rack  —  poor,  weakened  wretch  ! 
Save  him  !  —  O,  not  again  its  fiery  stretch  ! 

"  Sharp  our  first  pangs;  but  in  our  minds  is  life; 
Our  hearts  beat  strong,  and  fit  us  for  the  strife; 
A  joyous  sense  still  breathes  amid  our  grief, 
As  shoots,  in  drooping  boughs,  a  tender  leaf. 
But  when  woe  comes  again,  our  spirits  yield, 
Our  hearts  turn  faint,  we  cannot  lift  the  shield; 
There  is  no  strength  in  all  our  bones;  we  fall, 
And  call  for  mercy  —  trembling,  prostrate,  call. 

"  The  sun  was  down,  and  softened  was  the  glow 
On  cloud  and  hill  —  but  now  a  joyous  show. 
Quiet  the  air.     Its  light  the  young  moon  sent 
On  this  sad  pair  as  up  the  vale  they  went. 
—  O  !  gentle  is  thy  silver  ray,  fair  moon. 
Meet  guide  art  thou  for  those  to  part  so  soon. 
There  's  pity  in  thy  look;   and  we  below 
Do  love  thee  most,  who  feel  the  touch  of  woe. 

"  And  up  among  the  distant  hills  are  they, 
To  meet  the  weekly  coach  upon  its  way. 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  51 

They  lingered  till  was  heard  a  rumbling  sound, 
Which  spread  between  the  hills  that  lay  around. 
Soon  rung  the  smart  cracked  whip ;  and  then  the  cheer, 
And  quick,  sharp  tramp  told  the  strong  steeds  were 

near. 

'Twas  one  imploring  look;   and  then  she  fell 
Upon  his  neck;   they  uttered  no  farewell  — 
One  short,  convulsive  clasp,  one  heart-sick  groan  — 
No  other  look  —  that  one,  weak,  bitter  moan, — 
And  then  her  arms  fell  from  him.  —  All  is  o'er  ! 
Poor  woe-stfuck  girl,  she  never  clasped  him  more  ! 

"  The  coach  which  bore  him  sank  behind  the  hill. 
The  short,  quick  bustle  past,  the  earth  is  still; 
The  agony  is  over;   a  dull  haze 
Hangs  round  her  mind  —  upon  the  void  her  gaze. 
A  fearful  calm  is  on  that  fair,  sad  brow! 
O!  who  shall  gently  part  its  dark  locks  now, 
Or  press  its  saintly  whiteness?  —  He  is  gone, 
Who,  blessing,  kissed  thee;  —  thou  must  go  alone; 
Alone  must  bear  thy  sorrows  many  an  hour, 
Widowed  of  all  thy  hopes  —  thy  grief  thy  dower  ! 

"  She  sought  amid  her  daily  cares  for  ease, 
To  lose  all  sense  of  self,  and  others  please. 
The  heart  lay  heavy.     With  her  grief  was  fear. 
She  thought  a  gloomy  something  always  near, 
That  o'er  her  like  a  mighty  prophet  stood, 
Uttering  her  doom  —  '  For  thee  no  more  of  good  ! 
Thy  joys  are  withered  round  thee  !     Read  the  date 
Of  all  thy  hopes  !  —  Thou  art  set  desolate  !  ' 


52  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

"  A  year  went  by.     Another  came  and  past. 
1  This  third, '  her  friends  would  say,  '  must  be  the  last : ' 
Spake  of  his  coming,  then,  and  how  he  'd  look. 
She  turned  more  pale;  her  head  she  slowly  shook, 
And  something  muttered,  as  in  talk  with  one 
Whom  no  one  saw ;  —  then  said  —  '  It  must  be  done  !' 

"  And  when  the  tale  was  told,  the  ship  had  sailed. 
That  nothing  more  was  known  —  that  hope  had  failed ; 
'  It  is  fulfilled  !'  she  said —  '  Prophetic  Power, 
Thou  told'st  me  true  !  —  'T  is  come  —  the  fated  hour  ! ' 

ct  Her  look  was  now  like  cold  and  changeless  stone. 
She  left  her  home,  for  she  would  be  alone; 
Wandered  the  fields  all  o'er;   and  up  the  hill, 
Where  last  they  parted,  stood  at  morning  still, 
And  far  along  that  region  gazed,  as  she 
In  the  blue  distance  saw  the  moving  sea; 
And  of  the  far-off  mountain-mist  would  frame 
Long  spars,  and  sails,  and  give  the  lost  ship's  name; 
And  watch  with  glee,  to  see  how  fast  it  neared; 
Grow  restless  then —  '  It  ne'er  will  come/  she  feared. 

11  Soon  rolls  the  mist  away;   and  she  is  left, 
Of  sea,  ship,  lover,  shaping  hopes  bereft. 
Through  glistening  tears  she  'd  look,  and  see  them  go; 
Then  to  the  vale,  to  dwell  upon  her  woe, 
And  listen  to  the  dark  pine's  murmuring, 
Thinking  the  spirit  of  the  sea  did  sing 
Its  sad,  low  song:  —  for,  '  Such,'  would  Edward  say, 
'  Its  mourning  tones,  where  long  sand-beaches  lay.' 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  53 

But  when  through  naked  trees  the  strong  wind  went, 
.Roaring  and  fierce,  and  their  tossed  arms  were  rent 
With  sullen  mutterings,  then  a  moaning  sigh  — 
'  Hear  them  !  '  she  'd  shriek,  —  '  The  waves  run  moun 
tain  high  !  — 
They  're  mad  !  —  They  shake  her  in  their  wrath  — 

She  's  down  !  — 

-Went  to  the  bottom,  said  they?  —  Did  all  drown?  — 
He  told  me  he  would  come,  and  I  should  be 
His  own,  own  wife  !  —  There  's  mercy  in  the  sea? ' 

'  The  spring  was  come  again.  —  There  is  a  grief 
Finds  soothing  in  the  bud,  and  bird,  and  leaf. 
A  grief  there  is  of  deeper,  withering  power, 
That  feels  death  lurking  in  the  springing  flower  — 
That  stands  beneath  the  sun,  yet  circled  round 
By  a  strange  darkness  —  stands  amid  the  sound 
Of  happy  things,  and  yet  in  silence  bound;  — 
Moves  in  a  fearful  void  amid  the  throng, 
And  deems  that  happy  nature  does  it  wrong; 
Thinks  joy  unkind;  feels  it  must  walk  alone, 
That  not  on  earth  is  one  to  hear  its  moan, 
Or  bring  assuaging  sympathies,  or  bind 
A  broken  heart,  or  cheer  a  desert  mind. 
—  And  thus  she  walks  in  silent  loneliness. 
Sounds  come,  and  lovely  sights  around  her  press; 
Yet  all  in  vain  !     She  something  sees  and  hears, 
But  feels  not  —  dead  to  pangs,  to  joys,  to  fears; 
Nor  wishes  aught.     The  mind  all  waste  and  worn, 
Lives  but  to  faintly  know  itself  forlorn; 


54  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

Remembrance  of  past  joys  well  nigh  forgot, 
As  if  one  changeless  gloom  had  been  her  lot; 
And,  sure,  had  thought  it  strange  that  there  should  be 
Blessings  in  store  for  one  so  poor  as  she. 

"  She  wandered  in  this  dull  and  fearful  mood, 
A  shadow  'mong  the  shadows  of  the  wood; 
Would  sit  the  livelong  day  and  watch  the  stream, 
And  pore,  when  shed  the  moon  its  fainter  beam, 
In  dreamy  thought,  upon  the  dreamy  light.  — 
How  few,  of  grief,  have  felt,  can  feel  the  might ! 

"  Season  of  thought !  The  leaves  are  dropping  now, 
Tawny  or  red,  from  off  their  parent  bough. 
Nor  longer  plays  their  glossy  green  in  air, 
Over  thy  slender  form  and  long  dark  hair. 
Myriads  of  gay  ones  fluttered  over  thee;  — 
Thou  now  look'st  up  at  that  bare,  silent  tree. 
Thou,  too,  art  waste  and  silent  :  — in  thy  spring 
The  cold  winds  came,  and  struck  thee  blossoming  ! 
Nor  sound,  nor  life,  nor  motion  in  thy  mind: 
All  lost  to  sense,  what  would  thy  spirit  find  ? 

"  They  led  her  home.  She  went ;  nor  asked  to  stay. 
The  same  to  her,  the  wood,  the  house,  the  way. 
The  talk  goes  on  —  the  laugh,  the  daily  tasks  : 
She  stands  unmoved  ;  she  nothing  heeds  nor  asks. 
Above  the  fire,  sea  shells,  from  distant  lands, 
Once  ranged  by  her,  she  feels  with  idle  hands. 
And  what  the  soul's  communion  none  could  trace;  — 
No  gleamings  of  the  past  in  that  still  face  ! 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  55 

<(  They  marked,  when  spring  returned  and  warmer 

days, 

She  stood,  as  now,  on  yonder  hill  her  gaze. 
They  thought  not  what  it  meant,  nor  cared  to  know 
The  glimmerings  of  a  mind  whose  light  was  low. 
They  saw,  as  up  the  hill  the  hot  steeds  came, 
A  strange  and  sudden  shuddering  take  her  frame. 
She  gave  a  childish  laugh,  and  gleamed  her  eye. 
The  coach  went  down — they  heard  a  scarce  breathed 

sigh. 

A  shade  past  o'er  her  face,  as  quickly  go 
Shades  flung  from  sailing  clouds,  on  fields  below  ; 
Then  all  was  clear  and  still  ;  the  unmeaning  smile, 
The  senseless  look  returned,  which  fled  awhile. 
And  thus  her  dreamy  days,  months,  years  are  gone  : 
Not  knowing  why  she  looks,  she  yet  looks  on. 
—  We  '11  homeward  now  !  " 

Death  is  a  mournful  sight, 
But  what  is  death,  to  this  dread,  living  blight ! 

Thou  who  didst  form  us  with  mysterious  powers, 
And  give  a  conscious  soul,  and  call  it  ours; 
Thou  who  alone  dost  know  the  strife  within, 
Wilt  kindly  judge,  nor  name  each  weakness  sin. 
Thou  art  not  man,  who  only  sees  in  part, 
Yet  deals  unsparing  with  a  brother's  heart; 
For  thou  look'st  in  upon  the  struggling  throng 
That  war  —  the  good  with  ill  —  the  weak  with  strong. 


56  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

And  those  thy  hand  hath  wrought  of  finer  frame, 
When  grief  o'erthrows  the  mind,  thou  wilt  not  blame; 
But  say,  "  It  is  enough  !  "  —  and  pity  show, — 
"  Thy  pain  shall  turn  to  joy,  thou  child  of  woe  ! 
Thy  heart  at  rest,  and  dark  mind  cleared  away, 
Heaven's  light  shall  dawn  on  thee,  a  calmer  day." 

The  sun  was  nigh  its  set,  as  we  once  more 
With  saddened  spirits  reached  the  good  man's  door. 
And  there  we  rested,  with  a  gorgeous  sight 
Above  our  heads  —  the  elm  in  golden  light. 
Thoughtful  and  silent  for  awhile  —  he  then 
Talked  of  my  coming. —  "  Thou  wilt  not  again 
From  thine  own  vale  ?     And  we  will  make  thy  home 
Pleasant;   and  it  shall  glad  thee  to  have  come." 
Then  of  my  garden  and  my  house  he  spoke, 
And  well  ranged  orchard  on  the  sunny  slope  ; 
And  grew  more  bright  and  happy  in  his  talk 
Of  social  winter  eve  and  summer  walk. 
And,  while  I  listened,  to  my  sadder  soul 
A  sunnier,  gentler  sense  in  silence  stole  ; 
Nor  had  I  heart  to  spoil  the  little  plan 
Which  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  kind  old  man. 

At  length  I  spake  — 

(l  No  !  here  I  must  not  stay. 
I  '11  rest  to-night  —  to-morrow  go  my  way." 

He  did  not  urge  me. —  Looking  in  my  face, 
As  he  each  feeling  of  the  heart  could  trace, 


THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME.  57 

He  pressed  my  hand,  and  prayed  I  might  be  blest, 
Where'er  I  went — that  heaven  would  give  me  rest. 

The  silent  night  has  past  into  the  prime 
Of  day — to  thoughtful  souls  a  solemn  time. 
For  man  has  wakened  from  his  nightly  death 
And  shut  up  sense,  to  morning's  life  and  breath. 
He  sees  go  out  in  heaven  the  stars  that  kept 
Their  glorious  watch,  while  he,  unconscious,  slept,  — 
Feels  God  was  round  him,  while  he  knew  it  not  — 
Is  awed  —  then  meets  the  world  —  and  God's  forgot. 
So  may  I  not  forget  thee,  holy  Power! 
Be  ever  to  me  as  at  this  calm  hour. 

The  tree-tops  now  are  glittering  in  the  sun : 
Away  !   'Tis  time  my  journey  was  begun  ! 

Why  should  I  stay,  when  all  I  loved  are  fled, 
Strange  to  the  living,  knowing  but  the  dead  ! 
A  homeless  wanderer  through  my  early  home  ; 
Gone  childhood's  joy,  and  not  a  joy  to  come  ? 
To  pass  each  cottage,  and  to  have  it  tell, 
Here  did  thy  mother,  here  a  playmate  dwell; 
To  think  upon  that  lost  one's  girlish  bloom, 
And  see  that  sickly  smile,  and  mark  her  doom  ! 
It  haunts  me  now  —  her  dim  and  wildered  brain. 
I  would  not  look  upon  that  eye  again  ! 

Let  me  go,  rather,  where  I  shall  not  find 
Aught  that  my  former  self  will  bring  to  mind. 


58  THE  CHANGES    OF    HOME. 

These  old,  familiar  things,  where'er  I  tread, 
Are  round  me  like  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 
No  !  wide  and  foreign  lands  shall  be  my  range: 
That  suits  the  lonely  soul,  where  all  is  strange. 

Then,  for  the  dashing  sea,  the  broad,  full  sail ! 
And  fare  thee  well,  my  own,  green,  quiet  Vale. 


FACTITIOUS   LIFE. 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  or  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  aw£y,  a  sordid  boon. 

WORDSWORTH. 

But  if  his  word  once  teach  us  —  shoot  a  ray 

Through  all  the  heart's  dark  chambers,  and  reveal 

Truths  undiscerned  but  by  that  holy  light, 

Then  all  is  plain.     Philosophy,  baptized 

In  the  pure  fountain  of  eternal  love, 

Has  eyes,  indeed.  COWPER. 

The  severe  schooles  shall  never  laugh  me  out  of  the  philosophy  of  Hermes, 
that  this  visible  world  is  but  a  picture  of  the  invisible,  wherein,  as  in  a  pour- 
tract,  things  are  not  truly,  but  in  equivocal  shapes,  and  as  they  counterfeit 
some  more  real  substance  in  that  invisible  Fabrick. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 


SCARCE  two  score  years  are  gone  since  life  began, 
Yet  many  changes  have  I  seen  in  man. 
But  when  I  'm  seated  in  my  easy  chair, 
(My  "  stede  of  bras  "  )  and  up  through  viewless  air, 
Go  flying  on  by  generations  back, 
O,  then,  what  changes  pass  I  in  my  track! 


60  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

"  Cambuscan  bold  "  might  course  o'er  many  a  clime. 
I  in  a  moment  compass  earth  and  time, 
Seeing  what  is  and  hath  been;  and  I  view 
Much  very  old,  that  some  think  very  new. 

The  grandam  to  the  modern  belle  complains, 
You  've  stole  my  waist.    May  you  endure  its  pains  — 
Steel  and  the  cord!  —  In  his  fine  dandy  son 
The  ghost  of  Squaretoes  sees  himself  outdone. 
"  Pull  off  my  boots,"  he  cries,  with  crazy  Lear; 
And  squaretoed  boots  and  Squaretoes  disappear, — 
—  Fie,  scant-robed  ghost,  to  thus  cut  roundabout 
That  modest  miss,  and  so  play  'Cobbler  Stout.' 
O,  take  no  more  than  is  thy  own  —  the  train; 
Shame  to  pure  eyes! — the  re.st  give  back  again. 
If  on  such  errands  you  come  back  to  earth, 
You  '11  leave  us  all  as  naked  as  at  birth. 
Wife,  Virgin,  mother,  see  them,  there  they  walk! 

Dress  as  they  may,  good  Sir,  you  must  not  talk. 
For  learn,  in  times  like  these  you  're  not  to  say 
What  others  do,  though  done  in  open  day. 
Our  language,  not  our  conduct,  marks  the  mind. 
Let  that  be  pure,  and  this  must  be  refined. 
Ophelia's  words  would  shock  a  modern  belle. 
— Prince  Hamlet,  had  Ophelia's  robe  that  swell? 
Did  the  wind  sway  it  thus?  the  janty  tread? 
What  said  Laertes  at  his  parting,  maid? 
'  The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
If  she  unmask  her  beauties  to'  — 

O}  stuff! 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  61 

Have  you  no  other  subject  for  your  song, 
Than  whether  we  go  drest  too  short  or  long  ? 
If  such  the  theme  on  which  you  mean  to  prose, 
Excuse  me,  while  you  lecture,  if  I  doze. 

Nay,  I  am  done!  and  rest  on  this  as  true;  — 
Though  Fashion  's  absolute,  she  's  fickle  too. 
E'en  while  I  write,  a  transformation  strange 
Is  going  on,  and  shows  that  all  is  change. 
And  by  the  time  these  lines  shall  be  in  press, 
They'll  need  a  learned  note,  in  prose,  on  dress. 

Not  dress  alone;  opinions  have  their  day; 
That  is  deposed,  and  this  awhile  bears  sway; 
That  mounts  the  throne  in  glistering  robes  once  more: 
They  who  adored,  then  scorned,  again  adore, 
To  scorn  again:  —  in  one  thing  constant  still  — 
Themselves  ne'er  wrong,  whoe'er  the  throne  may  fill. 

Be  it  opinion,  notion,  fancy,  whim  — 

E'en  what  you  will  —  't  is  all  the  same  to  him 

The  grave  philosopher;   he  wheels  about 
His  system  to  the  crowd ;  then  wheels  it  out, 
And  shoves  another  in;   as  at  a  show 
Trees,  houses,  castles,  towns  move  to  and  fro; 
Ransacks  the  lumber-room  of  ancient  time, 
The  older,  better,  best  in  farthest  clime; 
For  farthest  off  less  likely  to  be  known 
The  learned  theft:  — the  thing  is  all  his  own! 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 


Old  furniture,  new  varnished  and  new  named, 
Serves  all  his  ends;  the  charlatan  is  famed. 
O,  simple  world,  well  gulled!  he  cries,  with  glee; 
Blest  '  second-hand  originality  !  ' 

From  Asia,  Africa,  from  Greece  behold 
Rise  from  their  antique  tombs  the  sages  old. 
This  modern  son  of  light  descries,  with  dread, 
Their  shadowy  forms  :    They  come,  the  mighty  dead  ! 

For  pardon,  wronged  ones,  at  your  feet  I  fall. 
I  own  the  theft;  but  strip  me  not  of  all! 
Leave  me  my  name,  at  least,  if  nothing  more; 
Save  one  from  general  scorn,  whom  men  adore. 

The  name,  dishonored,  keep,  they  with  a  frown 
Reply;  then  turn,  and  to  their  graves  go  down. 

Although  upon  the  shore  of  time  we  stand, 
And  watch  the  ebb  and  flood  along  the  strand; 
Although  what  is,  has  been,  we  yet  may  trace 
A  silent  change  upon  the  world's  wide  face. 
'Mid  renovated  philosophic  schemes, 
And  arts  restored  or  lost,  plans,  fashions,  dreams, 
That  idly  eddying,  jostle  side  by  side, 
Down  through  them  all  there  runs  a  steady  tide 
Of  subtile  alteration,  scarce  perceived; 
As  age,  of  hope  and  youthful  warmth  bereaved, 
But  faintly  notes  a  change  so  soft  and  slow: 
So  gently  dropped  the  leaves  that  lie  below. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 


63 


But  bring  the  extremes  together;   let  them  greet  — 
1  he  elastic  boy,  and  man  on  tottering  feet. 
We  ask  amazed,  Can  these  indeed  be  one? 
Yes,  even  so;  we  see  what  Time  has  done,— 
lhat  cunning  craftsman,  he  that  works  alway 
Makes  and  unmakes,  nor  stops  for  night  nor  day  - 
(For  they  his  bond-men  are)  rules  while  he  toils' 
And  laughs  to  think  what  purposes  he  foils 
In  vain,  fore-casting  man  — that  fool  or  knave 
(All  but  the  truly  wise)  he  holds  a  slave. 

Thou  universal  Worker,  thou  hast  wrought 
Vast  changes  in  the  world  of  heart  and  thought 
Once  flowed  the  stream  of  feeling,  like  a  bro°ok 

natural  windings;  now  we  feel  by  book. 
And  once,  as  joy  or  sorrow  moved  the  man, 
He  laughed  or  wept,  unguided  by  a  plan 

>f  outward  port;   for  in  his  riper  years 
The  boy  still  lived;   and  anger,  love,  and  fears 
fepoke  out  m  action  vehement:   'Twas  strength 
Strong  heart    strong  thought;    thought,  feeling   ran 

their  length 

In  a  wild  grandeur,  or  they  passive  lay, 
Like  waters  circled  in  a  wooded  bay, 
That  take  from  some  slow  cloud  the  quivering  lights 
thrown  from  its  snowy  rifts  and  glittering  heights. 

Yes   free  and  ever  varying  played  the  heart; 
t  Nature  schooled  it;   life  was  not  an  art 
as  the  bosom  heaved,  so  wrought  the  mind; 
Ihe  thought  put  forth  in  act;  and  unconfined, 


64  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

The  whole  man  lived  his  feelings.     TIME  shall  say 
If  man 's  the  same  in  this  our  latter  day  ? 

The  same  !   I  scarcely  know  my  work!     For  when 
I  take  my  rounds  among  the  throngs  of  men, 
E'en  he  who  almost  rivals  me  in  years, 
Apes  youth  so  well;  his  head  of  hair  appears 
So  full  and  fresh,  I  fain  would  hide  my  pate, 
Rub  out  old  scores,  and  start  with  a  new  date. 

The  youth  enacts  the  sage,  contemns  the  dead, 
Lauds  his  own  times,  and  cries,  Go  up,  bald  head! 
Misses  and  little  masters  read  at  school 
Abridged  accounts  of  governments  and  rule; 
Word-wise,  and  knowing  all  things,  nothing  know; 
They  'd  reap  the  harvest,  e'er  the  ground  they  sow. 
The  world  's  reversed;  boy  politicians  spout; 
And  age  courts  youth,  lest  youth  should  turn  him  out. 

The  child  is  grown  as  cautious  as  three  score; 
Admits,  on  proof,  that  two  and  two  are  four. 
He  to  no  aimless  energies  gives  way; 
%  No  little  fairy  visions  round  him  play; 
He  builds  no  towering  castles  in  the  sky, 
Longing  to  climb,  his  bosom  beating  high; 
Is  told  that  fancy  leads  but  to  destroy; 
You  have  five  senses;  follow  them,  my  boy  ! 
If  feeling  wakes,  his  parents'  fears  are  such, 
They  cry,  Don't,  dearest,  you  will  feel  too  much. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  65 

Does  Time  speak  truth?     I  think  so.     Let  us  take 
A  single  passion,  for  example's  sake. 

They  talk  of  love,  or  rather,  once  they  did, 
When  I  was  young:  I'm  told  'tis  now  forbid; 
That  love,  with  ghosts,  is  banished  clean  away, 
And  heads  well  crammed,  the  system  of  the  day; 
That  should  you  beg  a  maid  her  ear  incline 
To  your  true  love,  she  bids  you  love  define; 
Then  talks  of  Dugald  Stewart  and  of  Brown, 
And  with  philosophy  quite  puts  you  down ; 
On  mood  synthetical,  analysis, 
Descants  awhile.  —  Most  metaphysic  Miss  ! 
Who'd  win  thee,  must  not  like  a  lover  look, 
But  grave  philosopher,  and  woo  by  book. 

Gaze  on  her  face,  and  swear  her  eyes  are  stars; 

She  talks  of  Venus,  Jupiter  and  Mars. 
Speak  of  the  moon;  —  its  phases  and  eclipse 
How  caused,  you  hear  from  learned  and  ruby  lips. 
Vow  you  will  pour  your  heart  out  like  a  flood;  — 
She  treats  on  venous  and  arterial  blood; 
Drives  you  half  mad,  then  talks  of  motive  nerve, 
And  nerves  of  sense,  how  they  their  purpose  serve, 
And  how  expression  to  the  face  impart, 
How  all  important  to  the  painter's  art, 
Then  wonders  that  our  eyes  had  seen  so  well 
Before  we  read  about  their  nerves  in  Bell; 
Thus,  for  love's  mazes,  leads  you  round  about 
Through  arts  and  sciences,  an  endless  route. 
5 


66  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

O,  no,  it  was  not  so  when  I  was  young; 
No  maiden  answered  love  in  such  a  tongue, 
Or  cared  for  planets  in  conjunction  brought; 
With  her,  'twas  heart  with  hand,  and  thought  to  thought. 
She  tell  what  blood  her  veins  and  arteries  fill ! 
Enough  for  her  to  feel  its  burning  thrill. 
She  gaze  upon  the  moon,  as  if  she  took 
An  observation!  Love  was  in  her  look 
All  gentle  as  the  moon.     Herself  perplex 
With  light  original,  or  light  reflex! 
Enough  for  her,  "  By  thy  pale  beam,"  to  say, 
"Alone  and  pensive,  I  delight  to  stray; 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream."  *  — 
O,  maid,  thrice  lovelier  than  thy  lovely  dream! 

And  is  the  race  extinct  ?  Or  where  is  hid 
She,  with  the  blushing  cheek  and  downcast  lid, 
Tremblingly  delicate,  and  like  the  deer, 
Gracefully  shy,  and  beautiful  in  fear?  — 
Who  wept  with  good  La  Roche,  heard  Harley  tell 
His  secret  love,  then  bid  to  life  farewell?  — 
Dreamed  of  Venoni's  cottage  in  the  vale, 
And  of  Sir  Edward  senseless,  bleeding,  pale  ? 

Here  guard  thy  heart;  nor  let  the  poison  creep 
Through  the  soul's  languor,  like  delicious  sleep. 
Wake  ere  its  rancour  eats  into  the  core: 
His  is  not  love;   'tis  appetite — no  more, — 
A  finer  appetite,  like  love  so  dressed, 
Thou  'd'st  be  its  victim,  pitied  and  distressed ; 

*  Charlotte  Smith's  sonnet  "  To  the  Moon." 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  67 

Than  smiles  or  innocence  would'st  hold  more  dear 
A  wooing  sadness,  soft,  repentant  tear:  — 

Tears,  and  dark  falling  locks,  and  snowy  arm 

In  aught  so  beautiful  can  there  be  harm? 

Ah !  shun  Sir  Edward,  maiden,  for  thy  life; 
Nor,  once  his  mistress,  think  to  be  his  wife; 
Or,  doomed  for  all  thy  days,  if  wife  in  name, 
To  live  thy  own,  thy  child's,  thy  husband's  shame, 
Be  taunt's,  suspicion's  slave;  nor  dare  to  raise 
Thine  eye,though  wronged,  nor  hope  a  husband's  praise. 
There  's  reverence  in  true  love;  it  dreads,  abhors 
The  tainted  heart;   it  sues,  protects,  adores. 
Then  win  thee  reverence,  if  that  thou  would'st  win 
True  love:  — it  holds  no  fellowship  with  sin. 

But  why  complain  romantic  love  is  dead, 
If  to  uncertain  paths  it  wooes,  to  lead 
The  innocent  half  doubting,  yet  half  won, 
Through  softening  twilight  — mingled  shade  and  sun, 
While  slowly  steal  the  lights  away,  and  creep 
The  shadows  by,  till  on  the  fearful  steep 
She  stands  awhile  at  pause;  then  looks  below- 
Then  leaps;— -the  closing  waves  above  her  flow, 
And  down  she  sinks  forever? 

Very  true. 

Are  these  the  only  dangers  in  your  view? 

Or  would  you  lay  fair  flowering  nature  bare 
Because,  forsooth,  you  fear  a  canker  there? 
If  love  may  lure  romantic  minds  astray, 
Will  shruder  heads  point  out  a  surer  way? 


68  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

—  To  live  alone,  cries  one,  how  dull  a  life ! 
I  think  I  '11  marry ;  and  straight  takes  a  wife. 
Soon  tired  of  home,  and  finding  life  still  dull, 
He  joins  his  club,  keeps  horses  and  a  trull; 
Of  jokes  on  loving  husbands  cracks  a  score, 
And  coarse  as  heartless,  votes  a  wife  a  bore. 
The  widow-wife  secures,  her  loss  to  mend, 
A  kinder  husband,  in  her  husband's  friend; 
Or,  unrestrained  by  love,  yet  held  by  vows, 
Though  scarce  more  fond,  less  faithless  than  her  spouse. 

One  weds  with  age;  and  should  she  keep  her  truth, 
As  once  she  sighed  for  wealth,  now  sighs  for  youth; 
Looks  on  its  mantling  cheek,  and  brown  crisp  hair, 
Then  turns  to  age  and  wrinkles,  in  despair:  — 
Her  husband's  harlot,  feigns  love's  playful  wiles, 
So  deals  her  bargained  coaxings,  and  her  smiles 
The  dotard  dreams  she  loves:  —  thus  acts  her  part, 
And  robbed  the  joys  of  sin,  still  sins  in  heart. 

But  here  a  youthful  pair  !  What  think  you  now? 
The  friends  agreed, —  say,  shall  they  take  the  vow  ? 
Connexions  quite  respectable  all  round; 
With  ample  property,  and  titles  sound. 

Most  certainly  an  eligible  match, 
Estates  so  fit,  like  patch  well  set  to  patch. 

'T  is  strange  none  thought  of  it  before ! 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  69 

My  friend, 
How  fit  their  minds  ?     And  do  their  feelings  blend  ? 

Why,  as  to  these  I  've  not  as  yet  inquired. 
What  more  than  I  have  said  can  be  desired? 
They  '11  learn  to  like  each  other  by  and  by. 
'T  is  not  my  business  into  hearts  to  pry 
After  such  whims.     Besides,  what  them  contents, 
Contents  me  too.  —  Come,  let  us  sum  their  rents. 
Houses  in  town  —  say,  ten  — 

Nay,  join  their  hands. 

Boggle  at  hearts!     We  ne'er  should  join  their  lands! 
What  matters  it,  if  rough  and  sharp  below  ? 
Custom  and  art  will  make  the  surface  show 
Smooth  to  the  world  on  this  McAdam  way 
To  wedded  life ;  we  '11  have  no  more  delay, 
But  join  them  straight.  —  The  pair  have  made  a  trade — 
Contract  in  lands  and  stocks  'twixt  man  and  maid: 
Partners  for  life;  club  chances  —  weal  or  woe. 
Hangout  the  sign!  There,  read! —  A.  B.  &  Co.! 

And  do  unsightly  weeds  choke  up  the  gush 
Of  early  hearts?    Are  all  the  feelings  hush 
And  lifeless  now,  that  would  have  sent  their  sound 
In  unison,  where  young  hearts  throb  and  bound  ? 
Tear  up  the  weeds  and  let  the  soul  have  play ; 
Open  its  sunless  fountains  to  the  day ; 
Let  them  flow  freely  out;  they'll  make  thy  wealth. 
Bathe  thy  whole  being  in  these  streams  of  health, 


70  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

And  feel  new  vigor  in  thy  frame !  —  A  boy !  — 
And  weigh  thy  pelf  with  love!  —  against  a  joy 
That  lifts  the  mind  and  speaks  it  noble  —  gives 
Beauty  ethereal,  in  which  it  lives 
A  life  celestial  here,  on  earth  —  e'en  here! 
What  canst  thou  give  for  this,  and  call  it  dear  ? 
O,  it  is  past  all  count!    Pray,  throw  thou  by 
Thy  tables;  trust  thy  heart;  thy  tables  lie. 
Let  not  thy  fresh  soul  wither  in  its  spring. 
Water  its  tender  shoots,  and  they  shall  bring 
Shelter  to  age :    Thou  'It  sit  and  think  how  blest 
Have  been  thy  days,  thank  God,  and  take  thy  rest. 
Sell  not  thy  heart  for  gold,  then,  or  for  lands, 
'Tis  richer  far  than  all  Pactolus'  sands. 
And  where  on  earth  would  run  the  stream  to  lave 
The  curse  away,  and  thy  starved  soul  to  save  ? 

But  all  are  reasoners;  father,  mother,  child; 
And  every  passion's  numbered,  labeled,  filed, 
And  taken  down,  discussed,  and  read  upon. 

We  read,  last  night,  mama,  through  chapter  one. 
And  left  the  second  in  the  midst.     Shall  we 
Go  through  with  that  ? 

The  second  ?  Let  me  see  !  — 
The  second  treats  of  Grief  —  Read,  child! 

Fourth  head 
Concerning  grief,  is  sorrow  for  the  dead. 

Know,  happiness  is  duty.     Then,  be  wise, 
You're  not  to  grieve  though  one  you  care  for  dies. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  71 

Have  many  friends,  and  then  you'll  scarcely  know 
When  one  departs,  and  save  a  world  of  woe. 
Nor  do  we  now  retire  to  mourn;  we  live 
Only  in  taking  pleasure,  or  to  give. 

Is  sorrow,  sin  then,  mother? 

'T  is  a  waste.  -V> 
Sin!  child.    How  vulgar!  mind  me;  say^,  bad  taste. 

But  what  is  pleasure  ?    Men  have  said  of  old, 
'T  is  found  in  neither  luxury,  nor  gold, 
Nor  fashion,  nor  the  throng;  but  there  is  true 
Where  minds  are  calm,  and  friends  are  dear  and  few; 
That  life's  swift  whirl  wears  out  our  finer  sense, 
Sucks  down  the  good,  and  gives  out  nothing  thence 
But  a  tost  wreck,  which,  once  the  comely  frame 
Of  some  true  joy,  saves  nothing  but  the  name, 
And  drifts  a  shattered  thing,  upon  the  shore, 
Where  lie  the  unsightly  wrecks  of  thousands  more. 

To  flee  from  sorrow  and  alone  to  keep 
The  eye  on  happiness,  leaves  nothing  deep 
E'en  in  our  joys.     To  put  aside  in  haste 
The  cup  of  grief,  makes  vapid  to  the  taste 
The  cup  of  pleasure.     Think  not,  then,  to  spare 
Thyself  all  sorrow,  yet  in  joy  to  share. 

Take  up  that  many-stringed  harp,  and  thrum, 
On  one  dull  chord,  with  one  dull,  heavy  thumb. 
Now  thrill  the  fibres  of  thy  soul?  or  flow 
In  sounds  of  varying  measure,  swift  or  slow, 


72  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

The  full  rich  harmonies  ?  —  Nay,  listen  on ! 
Thy  soul  has  myriad  strings  where  this  has  one. 
—  Wearied  so  soon  ?  —  Then  take  it  up  and  play 
On  all  its  strings,  but  let  its  notes  be  gay. 
— Wearied  again  ?  and  glad  to  throw  it  by  ? 

Yes,  tired,  in  faith;  I  long  to  hear  it  sigh: 
I'm  worn  with  very  glee.     O,  let  me  give 
One  note  to  touch  my  heart,  and  feel  it  live !  " 

And  thus  the  soul  is  framed ;  that  if,  alone, 
We  loose  one  chord,  the  harp  will  fail  its  tone, 
The  mighty  harmonies  within,  around, 
Die  all  away,  or  send  a  jarring  sound. 

Give  over  then,  and  wisely  use  thy  skill 
To  tune  each  passion  rightly,  not  to  kill. 
To  joy  thee  in  the  living,  mourn  the  dead; 
And  know,  thou  hast  a  heart,  as  well  as  head,  — 
A  heart  that  needs,  at  times,  the  softening  powers 
Of  grief,  romantic  love,  and  lonely  hours, 
And  meditative  twilight,  and  the  balm 
Of  falling  dews,  and  evening  stars,  and  calm. 

For  ever  in  the  world,  there  forms  a  crust 
About  thy  soul,  and  all  within  's  adust. 
With  sense  beclouded,  and  perverted  taste, 
You  toil  abroad,  and  leave  the  heart  a  waste; 
Dead  while  alive,  and  listless  in  the  stir, 
See  all  awry,  deem  manner,  character;  — 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  73 

Not  sentient  of  the  right,  nor  loathing  wrong, 

You  smile,  and  call  that  rude,  which  God  calls  strong:  ! 

No  honest  indignation  in  your  breast, 

Nor  ardent  love,  but  all  things  well  exprest: 

Your  manner,  like  your  dress  —  a  thing  put  on;  — 

The  seen,  not  that  beneath,  your  care  alone. 

The  dress  has  made  the  form  by  nature  given, 
Unlike  aught  ever  seen  in  earth  or  heaven. 
Where,  girl,  thy  flowing  motion,  easy  sweep? 
Like  waves  that  swing,  nor  break  the  glassy  deep? 
All  hard,  and  angular,  and  cased  in  steel ! 
And  is  it  human?  Can  it  breathe  and  feel? 
The  bosom  beautiful  of  mould  —  alas ! 
Where,  now,  thy  pillow,  youth?  —  But  let  it  pass. — 
And  shapes  in  freedom  lovely?  —  I  will  bear 
Distorted  forms,  leave  minds  but  free  and  fair. 
5T  is  all  alike  conventional  ;  the  mind 
Is  tortured  like  the  body,  cramped,  confined  ; 
A  thing  made  up,  by  rules  of  art,  for  life  ; 
Most  perfect,  when  with  nature  most  at  strife  ; 
Till  the  strife  ceases,  and  the  thing  of  art, 
Forgetting  nature,  no  more  plays  a  part  ; 
Sees  truth  in  the  factitious  ;  —  pleasure's  slave  — 
Its  drudge,  not  lord  ;  in  trifles  only  grave. 

And  with  the  high  brought  low,  the  little  raised, 
Nature  forgotten,  the  factitious  praised, 
The  world  a  gaud,  life's  stream  a  shallow  brawl, 
What,  worldling,  holds  up  virtue  from  a  fall? 


74  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Virtue?  Nay,  mock  it  not.     There  sits  its  Form  : 
Thy  hand  upon  its  heart !  —  Does 't  beat?  Is  't  warm 
No  pulse  !  and  cold  as  death  ! 

Then,  paint  its  face, 

And  dress  it  up,  and  give  the  thing  a  grace, 
For  sake  of  decency.  — Why,  just  look  there! 
How  like  it  is !    And  what  a  modish  air ! 
How  very  proper!   Sure,  it  can  't  but  pass, 
And  serve  in  time  to  come,  for  fashion's  glass. 

With  etiquette  for  virtue,  heart  subdued, 
The  right  betraying,  lest  you  should  be  rude, 
Excusing  wrong,  lest  you  be  thought  precise, 
In  morals  easy,  and  in  manners  nice; 
To  keep  in  with  the  world  your  only  end, 
And  with  the  world,  to  censure  or  defend, 
To  bend  to  it  each  passion,  thought,  desire, 
With  it  genteelly  cold,  or  all  on  fire, 
What  have  you  left  to  call  your  own,  I  pray? 
You  ask,  What  says  the  world,  and  that  obey: 
Where  singularity  alone  is  sin, 
Live  uncondemned,  and  prostrate  all  within. 
You  educate  the  manners,  not  the  heart; 
And  morals  make  good  breeding  and  an  art. 
Though  coarse  within,  yet  polished  high  without, 
And  held  by  all  respectable,  no  doubt, 
You  think,  concealed  beneath  these  flimsy  lies, 
To  keep  through  life  the  set  proprieties. 


FACTITIOUS   LIFE.  75 

Ah,  fool,  let  but  a  passion  rise  in  war, 
Your  mighty  doors  of  Gaza,  posts  and  bar, 
'T  will  wrench  away.     The  Dalilah  of  old  — 
Your  harlot  virtue — thought  with  withes  to  hold 
Her  strong  one  captive.     The  Philistines  came; 
He  snapped  the  bands  as  tow,  and  freed  his  frame, 
And  forth  he  went.     And  think  you,  then,  to  bind 
With  cords  like  these  the  Samsons  of  the  mind, 
When  tempters  from  abroad  beset  them?     Nay  ! 
They  '11  out,  and  tread  like  common  dust  your  sway. 

You  strive  in  vain  against  the  eternal  plan. 
Set  free  the  sympathies,  and  be  a  man. 
And  let  the  tear  bedew  thine  honest  eye, 
When  good  ones  suffer,  and  when  loved  ones  die. 
Deem  not  thy  fellow  as  a  creature  made 
To  serve  thy  turn  in  pleasure  or  in  trade, 
And  then  thrown  by.     It  breaks  thy  moral  power 
To  wrap  the  eternal  up  in  one  short  hour, 
And  ask  what  best  will  serve  to  help  you  on, 
Or  furnish  comforts  till  your  life  is  done. 

And  is  it  wise  or  safe  to  set  at  naught 
The  finer  feelings  in  our  nature  wrought, 
That  throw  a  lovelier  hue  on  innocence, 
And  give  to  things  of  earth  a  life  intense, 
Drawing  a  charmed  circle  round  our  home, 
That  nothing  gross  or  sensual  there  may  come? 
Yet,  what  makes  virtue  beauty  you  would  bend 
To  worldly  purposes  —  a  prudent  end  ! 


76  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

From  virtue  take  this  beautiful  regard, 
And  leave  her  homely  prudence,  duty  hard; 
Let  passions  unrefined,  fed  appetites, 
Awake  and  call  aloud  for  gross  delights, 
Think  you  the  paltry  barriers  you  have  built, 
Will  stand  the  tug,  and  keep  out  shame  and  guilt? 

Then,  leave  your  cold  forecastings,  sharp,  close  strife 
For  vantage ;   quit  the  whirl  you  call  your  life, 
And  see  how  God  has  wrought.  —  This  earth  was  made, 
For  use  of  man,  its  lord,  you  've  heard  it  said. 
Yes,  it  is  full  of  uses;  you  may  see 
How  plainly  made  for  use  is  yonder  tree,  — 
To  bear  thee  o'er  the  seas,  or  house  thee  dry, 
When  rains  beat  hard,  and  winds  are  bleak  and  high. 

No,  naught  of  this :  But  leaves,  like  fluttering  wings, 
Flash  light;  the  gentle  wind  among  them  sings, 
Then  stops,  and  they  too  stop;  and  then  the  strain 
Begins  anew;  and,  then,  they  dance  again. 
1  see  the  tinted  trunk  of  brown  and  gray, 
And  rich,  warm  fungus,  brighter  for  decay, 
Whence  rays  of  light,  as  from  a  fountain,  flow ; 
I  hear  the  mother  robin  talking  low 
In  notes  affectionate;  the  wide-mouthed  brood 
Chattering  and  eager  for  their  far-sought  food. 
The  air  is  spread  with  beauty ;  and  the  sky 
Is  musical  with  sounds  that  rise,  and  die 
Till  scarce  the  ear  can  catch  them;   then  they  swell; 
Then  send  from  far  a  low,  sweet,  sad  farewell. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  77 

My  mind  is  filled  with  beauty,  and  my  heart  — 
With  joy?     Not  joy,  with  what  I  would  not  part. 
It  is  not  sorrow,  yet  almost  subdues 
My  soul  to  tears:  it  saddens  while  it  wooes. 
My  spirit  breathes  of  love :  I  could  not  hate. 
O,  I  could  match  me  with  the  lowliest  state 
And  be  content,  so  I  might  ever  know 
This,  what?  I  cannot  tell  —  not  joy  nor  woe  ! 

Come,  look  upon  this  stream.     Now  stoop  and  sip. 
And  let  it  gurgle  round  your  parching  lip. 
It  runs  to  slake  the  thirst  of  man  and  beast, 
The  simple  beverage  to  great  nature's  feast. 

My  thirst  is  quenched;  but  still  my  spirit  drinks, 
And  my  heart  lingers,  and  my  mind  —  it  thinks 
Thoughts  peaceful,  thoughts  upon  the  flow  of  time, 
And  tells  the  minutes  by  this  slender  chime,  — 
Music  with  which  the  waters  gladly  pay 
Blossoms  and  shrubs  that  make  their  surface  gay. 

Thou  little  rill,  why  wilt  thou  run  so  fast 
To  mingle  with  rough  ocean  and  his  blast? 
Thou  thoughtless  innocent,  a  world  of  strife 
Is  there  !  Then  stay;  nor  quit  thy  peaceful  life, 
And  all  thy  shining  pebbles,  and  the  song 
Thou  sing'st  throughout  the  day,  and  all  night  long, 
Up  to  the  sun,  the  stars,  the  moon  when  she 
Kisses  thy  face,  half  sadness  and  half  glee. 


78  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Thus  pity  fills  my  heart,  and  thus  I  dream, 
When  standing  caring  for  the  unconscious  stream. 

Now  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 

Ho  !  how  the  giant  heaves  himself,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains; 
Foams  in  his  wrath;   and  at  his  prison  doors, 
Hark !  hear  him !  how  he  beats  and  tugs  and  roars, 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  pleep. 

Type  of  the  Infinite  !  I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  it 's  pain 
To  think;  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell;   and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul;   and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 
Far  back  beyond  all  date.     And,  O  !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me.     For  countless  years  thou  hast  rolled. 
Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  did'st  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn; 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath. 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  79 

At  last  thou  did'st  it  well !  The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swept 'st  to  death  the  breathing  land; 
And  then  once  more,  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

And  though  the  land  is  thronged  again,  O  Sea  I 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call, 
Share  thy  own  spirit:  it  is  sadness  all! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  Cliff— he  with  the  iron  crown. 
And  see  !  those  sable  Pines  along  the  steep, 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  Deep ! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge." 

These  are  earth's  uses.     God  has  framed  the  whole, 
Not  mainly  for  the  body,  but  the  soul, 
That  it  might  dawn  on  beauty,  and  might  grow 
Noble  in  thought,  from  nature's  noble  show, 
Might  gather  from  the  flowers  a  humble  mind, 
And  on  earth's  ever  varying  surface  find 
Something  to  win  to  kind  and  fresh 'ning  change, 
And  give  the  powers  a  wide  and  healthful  range; 
To  furnish  man  sweet  company  where'er 
He  travels  on  —  a  something  to  call  dear, 
And  more  his  own,  because  it  makes  a  part 
With  that  fair  world  that  dwells  within  the  heart. 

Earth  yields  to  healthful  labor  meat  and  drink, 
That  man  may  live  —  for  what?     To  feel  and  think; 


80  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

And  not  to  eat  and  drink,  and  like  the  beast, 

Sleep,  and  then  wake  and  get  him  to  his  feast. 

Over  these  grosser  uses  nature  throws 

Beauties  so  delicate,  the  man  foregoes 

Awhile  his  low  intents,  to  soft  delights 

Yields  up  himself;  and  lost  in  sounds  and  sights, 

Forgets  that  earth  was  made  for  aught  beside 

His  doting;  and  he  wooes  it  as  his  bride. 

—  Beautiful  bride  !  thou  chaste  one,  innocent ! 

To  win  and  make  man  like  thee,  thou  wast  lent. 

Call  with  thy  many  pleasant  voices,  then; 

The  wanderer  will  turn  to  thee  again. 

Yes,  now  he  turns  !  And  see  !  the  breaking  day  ! 

And  in  its  dawn,  the  wanderer  on  his  way  ! 

Thou  who  art  Life  and  Light,  I  see  thee  spread 
Thy  glories  through  these  regions  of  the  dead ; 
I  hear  Thee  call  the  sleeper:  —  Up  !  Behold 
The  earth  unveiled  to  thee,  the  heavens  unrolled  ! 
On  thy  transformed  soul  celestial  light 
Bursts;  and  the  earth,  transfigured,  on  thy  sight 
Breaks,  a  new  sphere  !     Ay,  stand  in  glad  amaze, 
While  all  its  figures,  opening  on  thy  gaze, 
Unfold  new  meanings.     Thou  shalt  understand 
Its  mystic  hierograph,  thy  God's  own  hand. 

Ah !  man  shall  read  aright  when  he  shall  part 
With  human  schemes,  and  in  the  new-born  heart 
Feel  coursing  new-born  life;  when  from  above 
Shall  flow  throughout  his  soul  joy,  light  and  love; 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  81 

And  he  shall  follow  up  these  streams,  and  find 
The  One  the  source  of  nature,  grace  and  mind. 
There,  he  in  God  and  God  in  him,  his  soul 
Shall  look  abroad  and  feel  the  world  a  whole  — 
"  From  nature  up  to  nature's  God,"  no  more 
Grope  out  his  way  through  parts,  nor  place  before 
The  Former,  the  thing  formed.  —  Man  yet  shall  learn 
The  outward  by  the  inward  to  discern  — 
The  inward  by  the  Spirit. 

Here  begin 

Thy  search,  Philosopher,  and  thou  shalt  win 
Thy  way  deep  down  into  the  soul.    The  light, 
Shed  in  by  God,  shall  open  to  thy  sight 
Vast  powers  of  being;  regions  long  untrod 
Shall  stretch  before  thee  filled  with  life  and  God; 
And  faculties  come  forth,  and  put  to  shame 
Thy  vain  and  curious  reasonings.  Whence  they  came, 
Thou  shalt  not  ask;   for  they  shall  breathe  an  air 
From  upper  worlds,  around,  that  shall  declare 
Them  sons  of  God,  immortal  ones;   and  thou. 
Self-awed,  in  their  mysterious  presence  bow; 
And  while  thou  listenest,  with  thy  inward  ear 
The  ocean  of  eternity  shalt  hear 
Along  its  coming  waves;   and  thou  shalt  see 
Its  spiritual  waters,  as  they  roll  through  thee; 
Nor  toil  in  hard  abstractions  of  the  brain, 
Some  guess  of  immortality  to  gain; 
For  far-sought  truths  within  thy  soul  shall  rise, 
Informing  visions  to  thine  inward  eyes. 
6 


82  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Believe  thyself  immortal?     Thou  shalt  know, — 
Shalt  feel  thyself  immortal,  when  shall  flow 
Life  from  the  Eternal,  and  shall  end  the  strife 
To  part  philosophy  and  heavenly  life. 
The  soul  to  its  prime,  union  then  restored, 
The  reason  humbled,  and  its  God  adored, 
Inward  beholdings,  powers  intuitive, 
Shall  wake  that  soul,  and  thought  in  feeling  live, 
And  truth  and  love  be  one,  and  truth  and  love, 
Felt  like  its  life-blood,  through  the  soul  shall  move. 

But  as  the  abstract  takes  visual  form,  and  thought 
Becomes  an  inward  sense ;  so  man  is  brought 
In  outward  forms  material  to  find 
A  character  in  harmony  with  mind, 
A  spirit  that  with  his  may  kindly  blend, 
And,  sprung  with  him  from  One,  in  One  to  end. 
""Set  in  his  true  relation,  he  shall  see 
Self  and  surrounding  things  from  Deity 
Proceeding  and  supplied  — that  earth  but  shows 
What,  ere  in  outward  forms  they  first  arose, 
Lived  spiritual,  fair  forms  in  God's  own  mind, 
And  now  revealed  to  him,  no  longer  blind, 
Open  relations  to  the  world  within, 
And  feeling,  truth  and  life  in  man  begin. 
In  sympathy  with  God,  his  sympathies 
Spread  through  the  earth,  and  run  into  the  skies. 
Full,  yet  receiving;  giving  out,  yet  full; 
Thoughtful  in  action;  quiet,  yet  not  dull, 
He  stands  'tween  God  and  earth:  A  genial  light 
Dawns  in  his  soul;  and  while  he  casts  his  sight 


FACTITIOUS    LIFE.  83 

Abroad,  behold  the  Sun  !     As  on  its  track, 
It  mounts  high  up  the  heavens,  its  fires  give  back 
Only  the  effluence  of  that  inward  fire, 
The  reflex  of  the  soul,  and  God  its  sire. 
Where'er  the  soul  looks  forth,  't  is  to  behold 
Itself  in  secondary  forms  unfold. 
Mysterious  Archetype  !  see  wide  unfurled 
Before  thine  eye,  thy  own,  thy  inner  world ! 

Now  all  is  thine;  nor  need'st  thou  longer  fear 
To  take  thy  share  in  all:  The  far,  the  near 
To  thee  are  God's,  so,  thine;  and  all  things  live 
To  higher  ends  than  earth;   and  thou  dost  give 
That  life  which  God  gives  thee;   and  to  impart 
Is  to  receive;  and  o'er  thy  new-born  heart 
The  earth  and  heavens  pour  out  a  living  flood; 
And  thou,  as  God  at  first,  seest  all  is  good. 

Now,  Love  his  life,  and  Truth  his  light  alone, 
His  spirit  even,  head  and  heart  at  one, 
A  rule  within  that  will  no  more  deceive, 
Man  sees,  to  love,  and  loves  but  to  believe: 
With  mind  well  balanced,  sees  and  loathes  deceit; 
And  loving  truth,  detects  its  counterfeit; 
With  all  pervading  truth  his  only  guide, 
Hath  naught  that  he  would  feign,  and  naught  to  hide. 
No  selfish  passion,  and  his  vision  just, 
And  claiming  trust  himself,  he  dares  to  trust; 
And  kind  as  trustful,  ne'er  to  merit  blind, 
But  liking  widely,  never  fails  to  find, 


84  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Through  all  their  varied  forms,  the  good  and  true ; 

Nor  seeks  a  substitute  for  narrowed  view, 

In  fond  excess;  nor  meanly  learns  to  rate 

His  love  of  some,  as  he  may  others  hate; 

Feeds  not  that  love  with  venom;  nor  would  raise 

On  one  man's  ruin  piles  to  others'  praise;  — 

Through  nature,  through  the  works  of  art,  he  feels 

'Tis  ever  changing  beauty  subtilely  steals, 

Which,  varying,  still  is  one;  and  thus  he  draws 

From  one,  delight  in  all,  through  genial  laws;  — 

Feels  that  in  love's  expanse  love's  safety  lies, 

Nor  what  God  proffers  to  himself  denies;  - 

That  every  attribute,  when  duly  used, 

Is  wisdom"—  not  our  being's  gifts  refused^ 

And  losing  self  in  others,  nobler  end 

Than  self-denied;  to  let  our  being  blend 

With  general  being,  wakes  intenser  life, 

And  others'  good  our  aim,  ends  inward  strife;  - 

That  truth  binds  all  things  by  a  common  tie; 

And  Love  is  universal  harmony; 

And  man,  to  truth  and  love  once  more  restored, 

Shall  hold  with  God  and  nature  sweet  accord. 

O,  World,  that  thou  wert  wise  !  Hast  thou  not  toiled 
For  seeming  good  enough?  —  enough  been  foiled? 
How  long  must  speak  the  void  and  aching  heart  ? 
I  'm  weary  of  my  task,  this  player's  part  — 
Of  smiles  I  cannot  feel,  feigned  courtesy, 
With  feigning  paid  again  —  my  life  a  lie. 
I  've  chased  the  false  so  long  !  and  yet  I  know 
The  false  hath  naught  for  me  but  secret  woe; 


FACTITIOUS   LIFE.  85 

Yet  knowing,  still  pursue,  with  blinded  haste, 
Through  systems,  morals,  fashions,  manners,  taste ;  — 
Have  bartered  love  for  wealth,  distinction  sought, 
And  vain  and  loveless  cares,  and  envy  bought ; 
Have  climbed  ambition's  heights,  to  feel  alone, 
Looked  down,  and  seen  how  poor  a  world  I  've  won ; 
Have  lost  the  simple  way  of  right,  and  tried 
Expedients  curious,  then  for  truth  have  sighed; 
And  weak,  from  energies  on  nothings  spent, 
Have  sought,  and  then  put  by,  what  nature  lent 
For  kind  repair  ;  —  e'en  like  a  pettish  child,  — 
Sick  of  pretence,  yet  willingly  beguiled. 
Simplicity  and  all  the  fair  array 
Of  outward  forms  that,  varying,  still  obey 
One  law  of  truth,  seemed  tamely  effortless; 
I've  craved  conceit,  sharp  contrast,  and  excess; 
Have  cast  my  noble  nature  down,  and  all 
The  outward  world  has  felt  and  shared  the  fall; 
Yet,  dimly  conscious  of  my  low  estate, 
Conscious  how  soon  the  world  and  senses  sate, 
Groveller  on  earth,  yet  wanting  will  to  rise, 
Tired  of  the  world,  unfitted  for  the  skies, 
As  to  the  abject,  helpless  slave,  to  me 
Would  come,  with  dire  import,  the  word,  Be  free  !  " 

Poor,  self-willed  slave,  a  bondage  hard  is  thine  ! 
A  bondage  none  can  break  but  Power  divine. 

Spirit  of  Love,  thou  Power  Divine,  come  down; 
And  where  thou  walk'dst  a  sufferer,  wear  thy  crown; 


86  FACTITIOUS    LIFE. 

Bid  the  vexed  sea  be  still,  the  tumult  cease; 
Prophet,  fulfil  thy  word,  reign  Prince  of  Peace ! 
O,  give  that  peace  the  world  knows  not,  and  throw, 
Light  of  the  world  !  thy  light  on  all  below; 
Shine  through  the  wildered  mind  that  man  may  see, 
Himself  and  earth  restored,  God,  all,  in  Thee  ! 


THOUGHTS   ON    THE   SOUL. 


'•  And  when  tliou  think  'st  of  her  eternity, 
Think  not  that,  death  against  her  nature  is  ; 
Think  it  her  birth."  DAVIES. 

1  But  it  exceeds  man's  thoughts  to  think  how  high 
God  hath  raised  man."  PABIE. 


IT  is  the  Soul's  prerogative,  its  fate, 
To  shape  the  outward  to  its  own  estate. 
If  right  itself,  then,  all  around  is  well; 
If  wrong,  it  makes  of  all  without  a  hell. 
So  multiplies  the  Soul  its  joy  or  pain, 
Gives  out  itself,  itself  takes  back  again. 
Transformed  by  thee,  the  world  hath  but  one  face.  — 
Look  there,  my  Soul!  and  thine  own  features  trace! 
And  all  through  time,  and  down  eternity, 
Where'er  thou  goest,  that  face  shall  look  on  thee. 


88  THOUGHTS    ON   THE    SOUL. 


WE  look  upon  the  outward  state,  and,  then, 
Say  who  is  happiest^ — saddest  who  of  men: 
We  look  upon  the  face,  and  think  to  know 
The  measure  of  the  bosom's  joy  or  woe. 

A  healthy  man  is  that,  and  full  his  hoard, 
His  farm  well  stocked,  and  well  supplied  his  board, 
His  helpmate  comely,  and  a  thrifty  dame 
Of  cheerful  temper,  morn,  noon,  eve,  the  same. 
How  pale  looks  yonder  man;  his  wife  a  scold, 
His  children  sickly,  starved  with  want  and  cold. 
And  there  goes  one,  a  freeman  all  his  life, 
Who  ne'er  had  plagues  of  home,  or  child,  or  wife. 
Another  lives  in  that  large,  silent  hall, 
Bereft  of  friends,  of  wife,  and  child,  and  all. 

Now,  of  the  four,  who  's  happiest,  saddest?  Say  ! 
I  thought  thou  knewest.     Well,  then,  why  delay? 
Oh,  Hamlet  like,  thou  would'st  peruse  the  face ! 
And  canst  thou  now  the  bosom's  secrets  trace? 
The  face  is  called  the  index  of  the  mind; 
Yet  dost  not  read  it,  wise  one?  —  Art  thou  blind? 
It  is  the  Soul  made  visible.     Behold 
The  shapes  it  takes.     Speak  !    What  may  his  unfold? 

Why,  joy,  be  sure;  you  saw  how  sweet  it  smiled. 
—  Thou  read  a  face  !  Go,  read  thy  horn-book, child ! 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE    SOUL.  89 

By  summing  that  man's  cattle  by  the  head, 
His  friends  alive,  or  wife  and  children  dead, 
Dost  think  to  learn  his  spirit's  breadth  and  length  ? 
To  find  his  joys'  and  sorrows'  depth  and  strength? 
Come!  of  these  joys  and  sufferings  make  thy  cast. 
Now  tell  me,  pray,  how  foot  they  up  at  last? 
Of  outward  things  thou  canst  not  find  the  amount. 
Think'st  thou  the  Soul's  emotions,  then,  to  count? 
To  range  upon  the  face  the  thoughts  that  fly 
Swifter  than  light  ?  —  That  rainbow,  in  the  sky, 
Severs  each  hue.     But  what  prismatic  glass 
Hast  thou  to  mark  the  feelings  as  they  pass  ? 
Or  what  wherewith  to  sound,  or  tell  the  flow 
Of  that  man's  deep  and  dark  and  silent  woe? 
To  name  their  kind,  or  reckon  their  degree, 
When  joys  play  through  him  like  a  sparkling  sea? 

Ocean  and  land,  the  living  clouds  that  run 
Above,  or  stand  before  the  setting  sun, 
Taking  and  giving  glory  in  his  light, 
Live  but  in  change  too  subtle  for  thy  sight. 
The  lot  of  man —  see  that  more  varied  still 
By  ceaseless  acts  of  sense,  and  mind,  and  will. 
Yet  could'st  thou  count  up  all  material  things, 
All  outward  difference  each  condition  brings, 
Then  would'st  thou  say,  perhaps,  Lo,  here  the  whole! 
—  The  whole  ?  One  thing  thou  hast  forgot  —  THE  SOUL  ! 

—  Life  in  itself,  it  life  to  all  things  gives; 
For  whatsoe'er  it  looks  on,  that  thing  lives  — 


90  THOUGHTS    ON   THE    SOUL. 

Becomes  an  acting  being,  ill  or  good ; 

And,  grateful  to  its  giver,  tenders  food 

For  the  Soul's  health;  or,  suffering  change  unblest, 

Pours  poison  down  to  rankle  in  the  breast: 

As  acts  the  man,  e'en  so  it.  plays  its  part, 

And  answers,  thought  to  thought,  and  heart  to  heart. 

Yes,  man  reduplicates  himself.     You  see, 
In  yonder  lake,  reflected  rock  and  tree. 
Each  leaf  at  rest,  or  quivering  in  the  air, 
Now  rests,  now  stirs  as  if  a  breeze  were  there 
Sweeping  the  crystal  depths.     How  perfect  all ! 
And  see  those  slender  top-boughs  rise  and  fall! 
The  double  strips  of  silvery  sand  unite 
Above,  below,  each  grain  distinct  and  bright. 
Yon  bird,  that  seeks  her  food  upon  that  bough, 
Pecks  not  alone;  for  look!  the  bird  below 
Is  busy  after  food,  and  happy,  too. 
—  They're  gone  !  Both  pleased,  away  together  flew. 

Behold  we  thus  sent  up,  rock,  sand,  and  wood, 
Life,  joy,  and  motion  from  the  sleepy  flood? 
The  world,  O  man,  is  like  that  flood  to  thee: 
Turn  where  thou  wilt,  thyself  in  all  things  see 
Reflected  back.     As  drives  the  blinding  sand 
Round  Egypt's  piles,  where'er  thou  tak'st  thy  stand, 
If  that  thy  heart  be  barren,  there  will  sweep 
The  drifting  waste,  like  waves  along  the  deep, 
Fill  up  the  vale,  and  choke  the  laughing  streams 
That  ran  through  grass  and  brake,  with  dancing  beams, 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE    SOUL.  91 

Sear  the  fresh  woods,  and  from  thy  heavy  eye 
Veil  the  wide-shifting  glories  of  the  sky. 

The  rill  is  tuneless  to  his  ear  who  feels 
No  harmony  within;  the  south  wind  steals 
As  silent  as  unseen  among  the  leaves. 
Who  has  no  inward  beauty,  none  perceives, 
Though  all  around  is  beautiful.     Nay,  more  — 
In  nature's  calmest  hour  he  hears  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  flinging  waves  —  puts  out  the  light, 
When  high  and  angry  passions  meet  in  fight; 
And,  his  own  spirit  into  tumult  hurled, 
He  makes  a  turmoil  of  a  quiet  world; 
The  fiends  of  his  own  bosorn  people  air 
With  kindred  fiends,  that  hunt  him  to  despair. 
Hates  he  his  fellow?  Self  he  makes  the  rate 
Of  fellow-man,  and  cries,  'T  is  hate  for  hate. 

Soul!  fearful  is  thy  power,  which  thus  transforms 
All  things  into  thy  likeness;  heaves  in  storms 
The  strong,  proud  sea,  or  lays  it  down  to  rest, 
Like  the  hushed  infant  on  its  mother's  breast  — 
Which  gives  each  outward  circumstance  its  hue, 
And  shapes  the  acts,  and  thoughts  of  men  anew, 
Till  they,  in  turn,  or  love  or  hate  impart, 
As  love  or  hate  holds  rule  within  the  heart. 

Then,  dread  thy  very  power;  for,  works  it  wrong, 
It  gives  to  all  without  a  power  as  strong 
As  is  its  own  —  a  power  it  can't  recall:  — 
Such  as  thy  strength,  e'en  so  will  be  thy  thrall. 


92  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

The  fiercer  are  thy  struggles,  wrath,  and  throes, 
Thou  slave  of  sin,  the  mystic  chain  so  grows 
Closer  and  heavier  on  thee.     Thus,  thy  strength 
Makes  thee  the  weaker,  verier  slave,  at  length, 
Working,  at  thy  own  forge,  the  chain  to  bind, 
And  wear,  and  fret  thy  restless,  fevered  mind. 

Be  warned  !     Thou  canst  not  break,  nor  scape,  the 

power 

In  kindness  given  in  thy  first  breathing  hour. 
Thou  canst  not  slay  its  life:  it  must  create; 
And,  good  or  ill,  there  ne'er  will  come  a  date 
To  its  tremendous  energies.     The  trust, 
Thus  given,  guard,  and  to  thyself  be  just. 
Nor  dream  with  life  to  shuffle  off  the  coil; 
It  takes  fresh  life,  starts  fresh  for  further  toil, 
And  on  it  goes,  for  ever,  ever,  on, 
Changing,  all  down  its  course,  each  thing  to  one 
With  its  immortal  nature:     All  must  be, 
Like  thy  dread  self,  one  dread  eternity. 

Blinded  by  passion,  man  gives  up  his  breath, 
Uncalled  by  God.     We  look,  and  name  it  Death. 
Mad  wretch!  the  soul  hath  no  last  sleep;  the  strife 
To  end  itself,  but  wakes  intenser  life 
In  the  self-torturing  spirit.     Fool,  give  o'er ! 
Hast  thou  once  been,  yet  think'st  to  be  no  more? 
What !  life  destroy  itself  ?     O,  idlest  dream 
Shaped  in  that  emptiest  thing  —  a  doubter's  scheme. 
Think'st  in  an  Universal  Soul  will  merge 
Thy  soul,  as  rain-drops  mingle  with  the  surge  ? 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL.  93 

Or,  no  less  skeptic,  sin  will  have  an  end, 

And  thy  purged  spirit  with  the  holy  blend 

In  joys  as  holy?     Why  a  sinner  now? 

As  falls  the  tree,  so  lies  it.     So  shalt  thou. 

God's  Book,  rash  doubter,  holds  the  plain  record; 

Dar'st  talk  of  hopes  and  doubts  against  that  Word? 

Or  palter  with  it  in  a  quibbling  sense  ? 

That  Book  shall  judge  thee  when  thou  passest  hence. 

Then  —  with  thy  spirit  from  the  body  freed  — 

Then  shalt  thou  know,  see,  feel,  what 's  life  indeed! 

Bursting  to  life,  thy  dominant  desire 
Shall  upward  flame,  like  a  fierce  forest  fire; 
Then,  like  a  sea  of  fire,  heave,  roar,  and  dash  — 
Roll  up  its  lowest  depths  in  waves,  and  flash 
A  wild  disaster  round,  like  its  own  woe  — 
Each  wave  cry.  "  Woe  forever!  "  in  its  flow, 
And  then,  pass  on;  —  from  far  adown  its  path 
Send  back  commingling  sounds  of  woe  and  wrath  — 
Th'  indomitable  Will  shall  know  no  sway:  — 
God  calls — Man,  hear  Him;   quit  that  fearful  way! 

Come,  listen  to  His  voice  who  died  to  save 
Lost  man,  and  raise  him  from  his  moral  grave; 
From  darkness  showed  a  path  of  light  to  heaven ; 
Cried,  "  Rise  and  walk;  thy  sins  are  all  forgiven." 

Blest  are  the  pure  in  heart.    Would 'st  thou  be  blest  ? 
He  '11  cleanse  thy  spotted  soul.  Would'st  thou  find  rest  ? 


9#  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

Around  thy  toils  and  cares  he  '11  breathe  a  calm, 
And  to  thy  wounded  spirit  lay  a  balm ; 
From  fear  draw  love;  and  teach  thee  where  to  seek 
Lost  strength  and  grandeur — with  the  bowed  and  meek, 

Come  lowly;  He  will  help  thee.     Lay  aside 
That  subtile,  first  of  evils — human  pride. 
Know  God,  and,  so,  thyself;  and  be  afraid 
To  call  aught  poor  or  low  that  He  has  made. 
Fear  naught  but  sin;  love  all  but  sin;  and  learn 
In  all  beside  't  is  wisdom  to  discern 
His  forming,  his  creating  power,  and  bind 
Earth,  self  and  brother  to  the  Eternal  Mind. 

Linked  with  the  Immortal,  immortality 
Begins  e'en  here.     For  what  is  time  to  thee, 
To  whose  cleared  sight  the  night  is  turned  to  day, 
And  that  but  changing  life,  miscalled  decay  ? 

Is  it  not  glorious,  then,  from  thy  own  heart 
To  pour  a  stream  of  life?  —  to  make  a  part 
With  thy  eternal  spirit  things  that  rot, — 
That,  looked  on  for  a  moment,  are  forgot, 
But  to  thy  opening  vision  pass  to  take 
New  forms  of  life,  and  in  new  beauties  wake? 

To  thee  the  falling  leaf  but  fades  to  bear 
Its  hues  and  odours  to  some  fresher  air; 
Some  passing  sound  floats  by  to  yonder  sphere. 
That  softly  answers  to  thy  listening  ear. 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL.  95 

In  one  eternal  round  they  go  and  come ; 
And  where  they  travel,  there  hast  thou  a  home 
For  thy  far-reaching  thoughts.  —  O,  Power  Divine! 
Has  this  poor  worm  a  spirit  so  like  thine? 
Unwrap  its  folds,  and  clear  its  wings  to  go! 
Would  I  could  quit  earth,  sin,  and  care,  and  woe! 
Nay,  rather  let  me  use  the  world  aright: 
Thus  make  me  ready  for  my  upward  flight. 

Come,  Brother,  turn  with  me  from  pining  thought, 
And  all  the  inward  ills  that  sin  has  wrought; 
Come,  send  abroad  a  love  for  all  who  live, 
And  feel  the  deep  content  in  turn  they  give. 
Kind  wishes  and  good  deeds — they  make  not  poor; 
They  '11  home  again,  full  laden,  to  thy  door. 
The  streams  of  love  flow  back  where  they  begin; 
For  springs  of  outward  joys,  lie  deep  within. 

E'en  let  them  flow,  and  make  the  places  glad 
Where  dwell  thy  fellow-men.     Should'st  thou  be  sad, 
And  earth  seem  bare,  and  hours,  once  happy,  press 
Upon  thy  thoughts,  and  make  thy  loneliness 
More  lonely  for  the  past,  thou  then  shalt  hear 
The  music  of  those  waters  running  near; 
And  thy  faint  spirit  drink  the  cooling  stream, 
And  thine  eyJ^gladden  with  the  playing  beam, 
That,  now,  upon  the  water  dances,  now, 
Leaps  up  and  dances  in  the  hanging  bough. 

Is  it  not  lovely?     Tell  me,  where  doth  dwell 
The  power  that  wrought  so  beautiful  a  spell  ? 


96  THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL. 

In  thy  own  bosom,  Brother?     Then,  as  thine, 
Guard  with  a  reverend  fear  this  power  divine. 

And  if,  indeed,  't  is  not  the  outward  state, 
But  temper  of  the  Soul,  by  which  we  rate 
Sadness  or  joy,  e'en  let  thy  bosom  move 
With  noble  thoughts,  and  wake  thee  into  love. 
And  let  each  feeling  in  thy  breast  be  given 
An  honest  aim,  which,  sanctified  by  heaven, 
And  springing  into  act,  new  life  imparts, 
Till  beats  thy  frame  as  with  a  thousand  hearts. 

Sin  clouds  the  mind's  clear  vision;  man,  not  earth, 
Around  the  self-starved  Soul,  has  spread  a  dearth. 
The  earth  is  full  of  life:  the  living  Hand 
Touched  it  with  life;   and  all  its  forms  expand 
With  principles  of  being  made  to  suit 
Man's  varied  powers,  and  raise  him  from  the  brute. 
And  shall  the  earth  of  higher  ends  be  full?  — 
Earth  which  thou  tread  'st !  —  and  thy  poor  mind  be  dull  ? 
Thou  talk  of  life,  with  half  thy  soul  asleep! 
Thou  ''living  dead  man,"  let  thy  spirits  leap 
Forth  to  the  day ;    and  let  the  fresh  air  blow 
Thro'  thy  soul's  shut  up  mansion.    Wouldst  thou  know 
Something  of  what  is  life,  shake  off  this  death; 
Have  thy  soul  feel  the  universal  breatfr 
With  which  all  nature  's  quick  !  and  learn  to  be 
Sharer  in  all  that  thou  dost  touch  or  see. 
Break  from  thy  body's  grasp,  thy  spirit's  trance; 
Give  thy  Soul  air,  thy  faculties  expanse:  — 


THOUGHTS    ON   THE    SOUL.  97 

Love,  joy,  e'en  sorrow, — yield  thyself  to  all! 
They  make  thy  freedom,  man,  and  not  thy  thrall. 
Knock  off  the  shackles  which  thy  spirit  bind 
To  dust  and  sense,  and  set  at  large  thy  mind! 
Then  move  in  sympathy  with  God's  great  whole; 

And  be,  like  man  at  first,  "  A  LIVING  SOUL  !  " 

Ji 

\^ 

&JTYJ 

Though  nothing  once,  and  born  but  yesterday, 
Like  Him  who  knows  nor  ending,  nor  decay, 
So  shalt  thou  live,  my  Soul, — immortal  one  — 
Strong  as  the  firm,  the  dread,  eternal  throne, 
Endless  as  God,  who  sits  for  aye  thereon. 

Infinite  Father!  shall  thy  creature  dare 
Look  forth,  and  say,  "  Eternity  I  share 
With  Him  who  made  me?  "     May  he  forward  send 
His  thoughts,  and  say,  "Like  God,  I  know  no  end?  "  — 
Stretch  onward,  age  on  age,  till  mind  grows  dim, 
Yet,  conscious,  cry,  "  There  still  am  I  with  Him?  " 
-  Worm  of  the  dust !  —thought  almost  blasphemy  !  — 
Dread  glory  !  —  I,  like  God,  shall  ever  be! 

O,  Goodness  searchless!  —  Thou  who  once  didst 

walk 

With  man  on  earth,  with  man  familiar  talk, 
Bringing  thyself  to  him,  to  lead  the  way 
From  darkness  up  to  glory  and  to  day, 


98  THOUGHTS    OX    THE    SOUL. 

Uniting  with  our  form,  that  man,  when  blind 
To  all  but  sense,  the  high  intent  might  find 
Of  his  own  soul,  his  never-dying  mind  — 
Teach  us,  in  this  thy  Sacrifice,  to  see 
Thy  love  — our  worth,  in  this  great  mystery. 

Poorly  of  his  own  nature  he  must  deem  — 
His  very  immortality  a  dream  — 
Whose  God  's  so  strange  he  may  not  condescend 
With  his  own  last  and  greatest  work  to  blend; 
But  rather  his  lost  creatures  must  forsake, 
Than  deign  to  dwell  with  that  He  deigned  to  make. 
Though  veiled  in  flesh,  did  God  his  glory  hide? 
God  counts  not  glory  thus,  but  human  pride. 

Debased  by  sin,  and  used  to  things  of  sense, 
How  shall  man's  spirit  rise  and  travel  hence, 
Where  lie  the  Soul's  pure  regions,  without  bounds  — 
Where  mind  's  at  large,  and  passion  ne'er  confounds 
Clear  thought,  and  thought  is  sight— the  far  brings  nigh, 
Calls  up  the  deep,  and,  now,  calls  down  the  high. 

Cast  off  thy  slough,  and  send  thy  spirit  forth 
Up  to  the  Infinite,  then  know  thy  worth. 
With  That,  be  infinite;  with  Love,  be  love,— 
Angel,  'mid  angel  throngs  that  move  above; 
Ay,  more  than  Angel:  nearer  the  great  CAUSE, 
Through  his  redeeming  power,  now  read  his  laws  — 
Not  with  thy  earthly  mind,  that  half  detects 
Something  of  outward  things  by  slow  effects; 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    SOUL.  99 

Viewing  creative  causes,  learn  to  know 

The  hidden  springs,  nor  guess  as  here  below, 

Laws,  purposes,  relations,  sympathies  — 

In  errors  vain.  —  Clear  Truth  's  in  yonder  skies. 

Creature  all  grandeur,  son  of  truth  and  light, 
Up  from  the  dust !  the  last  great  day  is  bright  — 
Bright  on  the  Holy  Mountain,  round  the  Throne, 
Bright  where  in  borrowed  light  the  far  stars  shone. 
Look  down !  the  Depths  are  bright !  And  hear  them  cry, 
"  Light!  light!  "  —  Look  up!  'tis  rushing  down  from 

high! 

Regions  on  regions  —  far  away  they  shine: 
'Tis  light  ineffable,  'tis  light  divine! 
"  Immortal  light,  and  life  for  evermore!  " 
Off  through  the  deeps  is  heard  from  shore  to  shore 

Of  rolling  worlds!  —  Man,  wake  thee  from  the  sod 

Awake  from  death  —  awake!  and  live  with  God! 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE. 


HUSBAND  and  wife  !     No  converse  now  ye  hold, 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  day  of  love, 
On  its  alarms,  its  anxious  hours,  delays, 
Its  silent  meditations,  its  glad  hopes, 
Its  fears,  impatience,  quiet  sympathies; 
Nor  do  ye  speak  of  joy  assured,  and  bliss 
Full,  certain,  and  possessed.     Domestic  cares 
Call  you  not  now  together.     Earnest  talk 
On  what  your  children  may  be,  moves  you  not. 
Ye  lie  in  silence,  and  an  awful  silence ; 
'T  is  not  like  that  in  which  ye  rested  once 
Most  happy  —  silence  eloquent,  when  heart 
With  heart  held  speech,  and  your  mysterious  frames. 
Harmonious,  sensitive,  at  every  beat 
Touched  the  soft  notes  of  love. 

A  stillness  deep 

Insensible,  unheeding,  folds  you  round; 
And  darkness,  as  a  stone,  has  sealed  you  in. 
Away  from  all  the  living,  here  ye  rest: 
In  all  the  nearness  of  the  narrow  tomb, 
Yet  feel  ye  not  each  other's  presence  now. 
Dread  fellowship  !  —together,  yet  alone. 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE.  101 

Is  this  thy  prison-house,  thy  grave,  then,  Love  ? 
And  doth  death  cancel  the  great  bond  that  holds 
Commingling  spirits?     Are  thoughts  that  know  no 

bounds, 

But  self-inspired,  rise  upward,  secirchLig  o'ut 
The  eternal  Mind  —  the  Father  of 'all  thJught  — 
Are  they  become  mere  tenants  of  a  tomb?  — 
Dwellers  in  darkness,  who  the  illuminate  realms 
Of  uncreated  light  have  visited  and  lived? — • 
Lived  in  the  dreadful  splendor  of  that  throne, 
Which  One,  with  gentle  hand  the  veil  of  flesh 
Lifting,  that  hung  'twixt  man  and  it,  revealed 
In  glory?  —  throne,  before  which  even  now 
Our  souls,  moved  by  prophetic  power,  bow  down 
Rejoicing,  yet  at  their  own  natures  awed?  — 
Souls  that  Thee  know  by  a  mysterious  sense, 
Thou  awful,  unseen  Presence  —  are  they  quenched, 
Or  burn  they  on,  hid  from  our  mortal  eyes 
By  that  bright  day  which  ends  not;   as  the  sun 
His  robe  of  light  flings  round  the  glittering  stars  ? 

And  do  our  loves  all  perish  with  our  frames? 
Do  those  that  took  their  root  and  put  forth  buds, 
And  their  soft  leaves  unfolded  in  the  warmth 
Of  mutual  hearts,  grow  up  and  live  in  beauty, 
Then  fade  and  fall,  like  fair,  unconscious  flowers? 
Are  thoughts  and  passions*  that  to  the  tongue  give 

speech, 

And  make  it  send  forth  winning  harmonies,  — 
That  to  the  cheek  do  give  its  living  glow, 
And  vision  in  the  eye  the  soul  intense 


102  THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE. 

With  that  for  which  there  is  no  utterance  — 
Are  these  the  body's  accidents?  —  no  more?  — 
To  live  in  it,  and  when  that  dies,  go  out 
Like  the  burnt  taper's  flame? 

O,  listen,  man! 

A  voico  vvuhiu  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 
"•Mai*,  thou  shalt  never  die  !  "     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  around  our  souls:  according  harps. 
By  angel  fingers  touched  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality: 
Thick  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

—  O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits;  drink  it  in 

From  all  the  air  !     'T  is  in  the  gentle  moonlight; 
'Tis  floating  in  day's  setting  glories;   Night, 
Wrapt  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 
Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears: 
JVight,  and  the  dawn,  bright  day,  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee: 

—  The  dying  hear  it;   and  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  w&ke  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

Why  is  it  that  I  linger  round  this  tomb  ? 
What  holds  it?     Dust  that  cumbered  those  I  mourn. 


THE  HUSBAND'S  AND  WIFE'S  GRAVE,  103 

They  shook  it  off,  and  laid  aside  earth's  robes, 
And  put  on  those  of  light.     They  're  gone  to  dwell 
In  love — their  God's  and  angels'.     Mutual  love 
That  bound  them  here,  no  longer  needs  a  speech 
For  full  communion;  nor  sensations  strong, 
Within  the  breast,  their  prison,  strive  in  vain 
To  be  set  free,  and  meet  their  kind  in  joy. 
Changed  to  celestials,  thoughts  that  rise  in  each, 
By  natures  new,  impart  themselves  though  silent. 
Each  quickening  sense,  each  throb  of  holy  love, 
Affections  sanctified,  and  the  full  glow 
Of  being,  which  expand  and  gladden  one, 
By  union  all  mysterious,  thrill  and  live 
In  both  immortal  frames:  —  Sensation  ail, 
And  thought,  pervading,  mingling  sense  and  thought  f 
Ye  paired,  yet  one  !  wrapt  in  a  consciousness 
Twofold,  yet  single  —  this  is  love,  this  life  ! 

Why  call  we  then  the  square-built  monument, 
The  upright  column,  and  the  low-laid  slab, 
Tokens  of  death,  memorials  of  decay? 
Stand  in  this  solemn,  still  assembly,  man, 
And  learn  thy  proper  nature;   for  thou  seest, 
In  these  shaped  stones  and  lettered  tables,  figures 
Of  life:  More  are  they  to  thy  soul  than  those 
Which  he  who  talked  on  Sinai's  mount  with  God, 
Brought  to  the  old  Judeans  —  types  are  these 
Of  thine  eternity. 

I  thank  Thee,  Father, 
That  at  this  simple  grave,  on  which  the  dawn 


104 


Is  breaking,  emblem  of  that  day  which  hath 
No  close,  Thou  kindly  unto  my  dark  mind 
Hast  sent  a  sacred  light,  and  that  away 
From  this  green  hillock,  whither  I  had  come 
In  sorrow,  Thou  art  leading  me  in  joy. 


THE    DYING    RAVEN. 


COME  to  these  lonely  woods  to  die  alone  ? 
It  seems  not  many  days  since  thou  wast  heard, 
From  out  the  mists  of  spring,  with  thy  shrill  note, 
Calling  upon  thy  mates  —  and  their  clear  answers. 
The  earth  was  brown  then;   and  the  infant  leaves 
Had  not  put  forth  to  warm  them  in  the  sun, 
Or  play  in  the  fresh  air  of  heaven.     Thy  voice, 
Shouting  in  triumph,  told  of  winter  gone, 
And  prophesying  life  to  the  sealed  ground, 
Did  make  me  glad  with  thoughts  of  coming  beauties. 
And  now  they  're  all  around  us,  —  offspring  bright 
Of  earth,  —  a  mother,  who,  with  constant  care, 
Doth  feed  and  clothe  them  all.  —  Now  o'er  her  fields, 
In  blessed  bands,  or  single,  they  are  gone, 
Or  by  her  brooks  they  stand,  and  sip  the  stream; 
Or  peering  o'er  it, — vanity  well  feigned  — 
In  quaint  approval  seem  to  glow  and  nod 
At  their  reflected  graces.  —  Morn  to  meet, 
They  in  fantastic  labors  pass  the  night, 
Catching  its  dews,  and  rounding  silvery  drops 
To  deck  their  bosoms.  —  There,  on  high,  bald  trees, 
From  varnished  cells  some  peep,  and  the  old  boughs 
Make  to  rejoice  and  dance  in  warmer  winds. 
Over  my  head  the  winds  and  they  make  music; 


106  THE    DYING    RAVEN. 

And  grateful,  in  return  for  what  they  take, 
Bright  hues  and  odours  to  the  air  they  give. 

Thus  mutual  love  brings  mutual  delight  — 
Brings  beauty,  life;  —  for  love  is  life  —  hate,  death. 

Thou  Prophet  of  so  fair  a  revelation  ! 
Thou  who  abod'st  with  us  the  winter  long, 
Enduring  cold  or  rain,  and  shaking  oft, 
From  thy  dark  mantle,  falling  sleet  or  snow  — 
Thou,  who  with  purpose  kind,  when  warmer  days 
Shone   on  the  earth,    'mid  thaw  and  steam,    cam'st 

forth 

From  rocky  nook,  or  wood,  thy  priestly  cell, 
To  speak  of  comfort  unto  lonely  man  — 
Didst  say  to  him,  —  though  seemingly  alone 
'Mid  wastes  and  snows,  and  silent,  lifeless  trees, 
Or  the  more  silent  ground  —  it  was  not  death, 
But  nature's  sleep  and  rest,  her  kind  repair;  — 
That  Thou,  albeit  unseen,  didst  bear  with  him 
The  winter's  night,  and,  patient  of  the  day, 
And  cheered  by  hope,  (instinct  divine  in  Thee,) 
Waitedst  return  of  summer. 

More  Thou  saidst, 

Thou  Priest  of  Nature,  Priest  of  God,  to  man  ! 
Thou  spok'st  of  Faith,  (than  instinct  no  less  sure,) 
Of  Spirits  near  him,  though  he  saw  them  not: 
Thou  bad'st  him  ope  his  intellectual  eye, 


THE    DYING    RAVEN.  107 

And  see  his  solitude  all  populous: 

Thou  showd'st  him  Paradise,  and  deathless  flowers; 

And  didst  him  pray  to  listen  to  the  flow 

Of  living  waters. 

Preacher  to  man's  spirit ! 

Emblem  of  Hope  !     Companion  !     Comforter  ! 
Thou  faithful  one  !  is  this  thine  end?     JT  was  thou, 
When  summer  birds  were  gone,  and  no  form  seen 
In  the  void  air,  who  cam'st,  living  and  strong, 
On  thy  broad,  balanced  pennons,  through  the  winds. 
And  of  thy  long  enduring,  this  the  close  ! 
Thy  kingly  strength,  thou  Conqueror  of  storms, 
Thus  low  brought  down. 

The  year's  mild,  cheering  dawn 
Shone  out  on  thee,  a  momentary  light. 
The  gales  of  spring  upbore  thee  for  a  day, 
And  then  forsook  thee.     Thou  art  fallen  now; 
And  liest  among  thy  hopes  and  promises  — 
Beautiful  flowers,  and  freshly  springing  blades, 
Gasping  thy  life  out.  —  Here  for  thee  the  grass 
Tenderly  makes  a  bed;  and  the  young  buds 
In  silence  open  their  fair,  painted  folds  — 
To  ease  thy  pain,  the  one  —  to  cheer  thee,  these. 
But  thou  art  restless;   and  thy  once    keen  eye 
Is  dull  and  sightless  now.     New  blooming  boughs, 
Needlessly  kind,  have  spread  a  tent  for  thee. 
Thy  mate  is  calling  to  the  white,  piled  clouds, 
And  asks  for  thee.     They  give  no  answer  back, 
As  I  look  up  to  their  bright  angel  faces, 


108  THE    DYING    RAVEN. 

Intelligent  and  capable  of  voice 

They  seem  to  me.     Their  silence  to  my  soul 

Comes  ominous.     The  same  to  thee,  doomed  bird, 

Silence  or  sound.     For  thee  there  is  no  sound, 

No  silence.  — Near  thee  stands  the  shadow,  Death;  — 

And  now  he  slowly  draws  his  sable  veil 

Over  thine  eyes;  thy  senses  softly  lulls 

Into  unconscious  slumbers.     The  airy  call 

Thou  'It  hear  no  longer;  'neath  sun-lighted  clouds, 

With  beating  wing,  or  steady  poise  aslant, 

Wilt  sail  no  more.     Around  thy  trembling  claws 

Droop  thy  wings'  parting  feathers.     Spasms  of  death 

Are  on  thee. 

Laid  thus  low  by  age  ?     Or  is  't 
All-grudging  man  has  brought  thee  to  this  end? 
Perhaps  the  slender  hair,  so  subtly  wound 
Around  the  grain  God  gives  thee  for  thy  food, 
Has  proved  thy  snare,  and  makes  thine  inward  pain. 

I  needs  must  mourn  for  thee.     For  I,  who  have 
No  fields,  nor  gather  into  garners  —  I 
Bear  thee  both  thanks  and  love,  not  fear  nor  hate. 

And  now,  farewell !     The  falling  leaves  ere  long 
Will  give  thee  decent  covering.     Till  then, 
Thine  own  black  plumage,  that  will  now  no  more 
Glance  to  the  sun,  nor  flash  upon  my  eyes, 
Like  armour  of  steeled  knight  of  Palestine, 
Must  be  thy  pall.     Nor  will  it  moult  so  soon 


THE    DYING    RAVEN.  109 

As  sorrowing  thoughts  on  those  borne  from  him,  fade 
In  living  man. 

Who  scoffs  these  sympathies, 
Makes  mock  of  the  divinity  within; 
Nor  feels  he  gently  breathing  through  his  soul 
The  universal  spirit.  — Hear  it  cry, 
"  How  does  thy  pride  abase  thee,  man,  vain  man ! 
How  deaden  thee  to  universal  love, 
And  joy  of  kindred  with  all  humble  things,  — 
God's  creatures  all !  " 

And  surely  it  is  so. 

He  who  the  lily  clothes  in  simple  glory, 
He  who  doth  hear  the  ravens  cry  for  food, 
Hath  on  our  hearts,  with  hand  invisible, 
In  signs  mysterious,  written  what  alone 
Our  hearts  may  read. — Death  bring  thee  rest,  poor 
Bird. 


FRAGMENT   OF    AN   EPISTLE. 


WRITTEN    WHILE    RECOVERING    FROM    SEVERE    ILLNESS. 


No  more,  my  friend, 

A  weary  ear  I  urge  you  lend 
My  tale  of  sickness,  aches  I  've  borne 
From  closing  day  to  breaking  morn  — 
Long  wintry  nights  and  days  of  pain  — 
Sharp  pain.     'Tis  past;   and  I  would  fain 
My  languor  cheer  with  grateful  thought 
On  Him  who  to  this  frame  has  brought 
Soothing  and  rest;  who,  when  there  rose 
Within  my  bosom's  dull  repose 
A  troubled  memory  of  wrong 
Done  in  health's  day,  when  passions  strong 
Swayed  me,  —  repentance  spoke  and  peace, 
Hope,  and  from  dark  remorse  release. 

Lonely,  in  thought,  I  travelled  o'er 
Days  past,  and  joys  to  come  no  more; 
Sat  watching  the  low  beating  fire, 
And  saw  its  flames  shoot  up,  expire, 


FRAGMENT    OF    A!T    EPISTLE.  Ill 

Like  cheerful  thoughts  that  glance  their  light 
Athwart  the  mind,  and  then  'tis  night. 

For  ever  night?  —  The  Eternal  One, 
With  sacred  fire  from  forth  his  throne, 
Has  touched  my  heart.     O\  fail  it  not 
When  days  of  health  shall  be  my  lot. 

Beside  me,  Patience,  suffering's  child, 
With  gentle  voice,  and  aspect  mild, 
Sat  chanting  to  me  song  so  holy, 
A  song  to  soothe  my  melancholy; 
Won  me  to  learn  of  her  to  bear 
Sorrows,  and  pains,  and  all  that  wear 
Our  hearts  —  me,  chained  by  sickness,  taught, 
"  Prisoner  to  none  the  free  of  thought:  " 
A  truth  sublime,  but  slowly  learned 
By  one  who  for  earth's  freshness  yearned. 

From  open  air  and  ample  sky 
Pent  up  —  thus  doomed  for  days  to  lie, 
Was  trial  hard  to  me,  a  stranger 
To  long  confinement,  me,  a  ranger 
Through  bailor  leafy  wood,  o'er  hill, 
O'er  field,  by  shore,  or  by  the  rill 
When  taking  hues  from  bending  flowers, 
Or  stealing  dark  by  crystal  bowers 
Built  up  by  Winter  on  its  bank, 
Of  branches  shot  from  vapor  dank: 
And  hard  to  sit,  and  see  boys  slide 
O'er  crusted  plain  stretched  smooth  and  wide, 


112  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 

Or  down  the  steep  and  shining  drift, 
With  shout  and  call,  shoot  light  and  swift. 

But  I  could  stand  at  set  of  sun, 
And  see  the  snow  he  shone  upon 
Change  to  a  path  of  glory,  —  see 
The  rainbow  hues  'twixt  him  and  me  — 
Orange,  and  green,  and  golden  light: 
I  thought  on  that  celestial  sight, 
That  city  seen  by  aged  John, 
City  with  walls  of  precious  stone. 
Brighter  and  brighter  grew  the  road 
'Twixt  me  and  the  descending  God; 
And  while  I  yearned  to  tread  its  length, 
Down  went  the  Sun,  in  all  his  strength. 

And  gone  's  his  path  like  the  steps  of  light 
By  angels  trod  at  dead  of  night, 
While  Jacob  slept.     Around  my  room 
The  shadows  deepen;  while  the  gloom 
Visits  my  soul,  in  converse  high 
Lifted  but  now,  when  heaven  was  nighi 

o 

Why  could  not  I,  in  spirit,  raise 
Pillar  of  Bethel  to  his  praise 
Who  blessed  me,  and  free  worship  pay, 
Like  Isaac's  son  upon  his  way? 
Are  holy  thoughts  but  happy  dreams 
Chased  by  despair,  as  starry  gleams 
By  clouds?  — Nay,  turn,  and  read  thy  mind; 
Nay,  look  on  Nature's  face  and  find 


FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE.  113 

Kind,  gentle  graces,  thoughts  to  raise 
The  tired  spirit  —  hope  and  praise. 

O,  kind  to  me,  in  darkest  hour 
She  led  me  forth  with  gentle  power, 
From  lonely  thought,  from  sad  unrest, 
To  peace  of  mind,  and  to  her  breast 
The  son,  who  always  loved  her,  prest ; 
Called  up  the  moon  to  cheer  me;  laid 
Its  silver  light  on  bank  and  glade, 
And  bade  it  throw  mysterious  beams 
O'er  ice-clad  hill  —  which  steely  gleams 
Sent  back  —  a  knight  who  took  his  rest, 
His  burnished  shield  above  his  breast. 
The  fence  of  long,  rough  rails,  that  went 
O'er  trackless  snows,  a  beauty  lent; 
Glittered  each  cold  and  icy  bar 
Beneath  the  moon  like  shafts  of  war. 
And  there  a  lovely  tracery 
Of  branch  and  twig  that  naked  tree 
Of  shadows  soft  and  dim  has  wove, 
And  spread  so  gently,  that  above 
The  pure  whit^Jmow  it  seems  to  float 
Lighter  than  that  celestial  boat, 

The  silver-beaked  moon,  on  air, 

Lighter  than  feathery  gossamer; 
As  if  its  darkening  touch,  through  fear, 
It  held  from  thing  so  saintly  clear. 
8 


H4  FRAGMENT    OF    AN    EPISTLE. 

Thus  nature  threw  her  beauties  round  me; 
Thus  from  the  gloom  in  which  she  found  me; 
She  won  me  by  her  simple  graces, 
She  wooed  me  with  her  happy  faces. 

The  day  is  closed;  and  I  refrain 
From  further  talk.     But  if  of  pain 
It  has  beguiled  a  weary  hour, 
If  to  my  desert  mind,  like  shower, 
That  wets  the  parching  earth,  has  come 
A  cheerful  thought,  and  made  its  home 
With  me  awhile,  I  'd  have  you  share, 
Who  feel  for  me  in  ills  I  bear. 


THE   PLEASURE    BOAT. 


I. 

COME,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go! 

They  're  seated  side  by  side; 
Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow: 

The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 

II. 

The  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat. 

Loose! —  Give  her  to  the  wind! 
She  shoots  ahead:  —  They  're  all  afloat: 

The  strand  is  far  behind. 

III. 

No  danger  reach  so  fair  a  crew! 

Thou  goddess  of  the  foam, 
I  '11  ever  pay  thee  worship  due, 

If  thou  wilt  bring  them  home. 

IV. 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  spray 

The  prow  is  dashing  wide, 
Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way, 

Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide! 


THE    PLEASURE    BOAT. 
V. 


O,  might  I  like  those  breezes  be, 
'And  touch  that  arching  brow, 

I  'd  toil  for  ever  on  the  sea 
Where  ye  are  floating  now. 


VI. 


The  boat  goes  tilting  on  the  waves; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by; 
There  dips  the  duck;  —her  back  she  laves; 

O'er  head  the  sea-gulls  fly. 

VII. 
Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops; 
Now  rising,  shoots  along  her  way, 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoops. 

VIII. 
The  sun-light  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift 
Sparkling  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 

IX. 

The  winds  are  fresh;  she  's  driving  fast 

Upon  the  bending  tide, 
The  crinkling  sail,  and  crinkling  mast, 

Go  with  her  side  by  side. 


THE    PLEASURE    BOAT.  117 

X. 

Why  dies  the  breeze  away  so  soon? 

Why  hangs  the  pennant  down  ? 
The  sea  is  glass;  the  sun  at  noon.  — 

—  Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown; 

XI. 

For,  see,  the  winged  fisher's  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea: 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom. 

—  Whose  eyes  look  up  at  thee  ? 

XII. 

She  smiles;  thou  need'st  must  smile  on  her. 

And,  see,  beside  her  face 
A  rich,  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir.  — 

What  beauty,  and  what  grace  ! 

XIII. 

And  pictured  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

And  peaked  rock,  and  hill, 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairy  land.  — 

How  lovely  and  how  still! 

XIV. 

From  that  far  isle  the  thresher's  flail 

Strikes  close  upon  the  ear; 
The  leaping  fish,  the  swinging  sail 

Of  yonder  sloop  sound  near. 


118  THE    PLEASURE    BOAT 

XV. 

The  parting  sun  sends  out  a  glow 

Across  the  placid  bay, 
Touching  with  glory  all  the  show.  - 

A  breeze !  —  Up  helm!  —  Away ! 

XVI. 

Careening  to  the  wind,  they  reach, 
With  laugh  and  call,  the  shore. 

They  've  left  their  foot-prints  on  the  beach ; 
But  them  I  hear  no  more. 

XVII. 

Goddess  of  Beauty,  must  I  now 
Vowed  worship  to  thee  pay  ? 

Dear  goddess,  I  grow  old,  I  trow:  — 
My  head  is  growing  gray. 


THE    EARLY    SPRING   BROOK 


I. 

WELL  nigh  a  year,  swift  running  Brook,  is  past 
Since  I,  upon  thy  fresh  green  side, 
Stood  here,  and  saw  thy  waters  glide, 

But  not,  as  now  they  flow,  rough,  turbid,  fast. 

II. 

'T  was  twilight  then ;  and  Dian  hung  her  bow 
Low  down  the  west;   and  there  a  star, 
Kindly  on  thee  and  me,  from  far, 

Looked  out,  and  blessed  us  through  the  passing  glow. 

III. 

A  goodly  fellowship  of  day  and  night; 

The  day,  the  moon,  the  stars,  in  one  — 
Night  scarcely  come,  day  scarcely  gone  — 

In  mutual  love  they  shed  harmonious  light. 


120  THE  EARLY  SPRING  BROOK. 

IV. 

It  fell  in  peace  upon  thy  face,  fair  brook,  - 
The  glittering  starlight,  paler  moon, 
Day's  last,  warm  glow:    but  that  full  soon 

Faded,  e'en  while  I  stood  to  feel  and  look. 

V. 

And  then  thy  tiny  beach,  no  longer  red, 
Took  from  the  other  lamps  its  hue, 
As  star  on  star,  in  order  due, 

Came  out  and  lighted  up  thy  pebbly  bed. 

VI. 

The  ground-bird  in  thy  bank  had  made  her  nest. 
She  sat  and  dreamed  about  her  brood, 
And  where  next  day  to  gather  food ; 

And  with  thy  song  well  soothed,  she  took  her  rest 

VII. 

It  pained  me  that  my  footsteps  caused  her  fear; 

For  I  had  come  with  weary  heart 

To  sit  with  her  and  take  a  part 
In  star  and  moon,  and  thy  low  song  to  hear. 

VIII. 

Fly  not  the  broken-hearted,  Bird  !  I  crave 

Thy  innocence,  thy  gentle  trust. 

Chirp  by  me  now,  and  when  I  'm  dust, 
Come,  make  thy  habitation  by  my  grave. 


THE  EARLY  SPRING  BROOK.  121 

IX. 

So  wished  I  then ;  and  more  my  spirit  spoke ; 
And  hopes  and  wishes,  mingling,  said, 
Thou  shalt  within  thy  grave  be  laid 

Ere  other  spring  return:  —  My  heart  was  broke. 

X. 

Yet  still,  more  sad  and  lonely,  here  I  tread 
Thy  banks  again,  unfettered  Brook. 
Now,  by  the  living  I  'm  forsook  :  — 

Before,  I  mourned  your  loss  alone,  ye  dead. 

XL 

The  cords  of  sympathy  nigh  all  untied ! 
And  when  I  raise  an  eye  by  chance, 
The  half-hid  sneer,  the  sidelong  glance 

Say,  Not  of  us  !  —  Would  I  had  long  since  died  ! 

XII. 

And  those  of  hearts  of  all  too  gentle  mould 
To  pain  the  pained,  by  silence  say, 
We  ne'er  can  walk  the  self-same  way ! 

And  shake  them  loose,  where  all  my  hopes  took  hold. 

XIII. 

Why,  I  can  bear  hot  anger  and  the  frown  — 
Much  better  far  than  feigned  regard  — 
I  mind  them  not;  they  make  me  hard; 

But  severed  and  yet  kind  !  —  it  weighs  me  down. 


122  THE  EARLY  SPRING  BROOK. 

XIV. 

Come,  teach  me  patience  then,  O  Thou,  for  whom. 

I  take  this  sorrow  to  my  breast ; 

Speak  to  me,  give  my  spirit  rest, 
And  make  me  ready  for  the  last  great  doom. 

XV. 

Here,  too,  there  has  been  sadness  since  that  I 

Last  talked  with  thee.     Thy  banks  were  green. 
Bright  reeds  and  flowers  no  more  are  seen. 

And  where  are  they?     Alas,  do  they,  too,  die? 

XVI. 
Thou  then  wast  all  o'er  beauty,  softness,  youth; 

In  self-wove  garments  mad'st  thee  gay; 

Didst  play  and  dance  by  night  and  day ; 
But  now  !  —  How  simple  nature  teaches  truth  ! 

XVII. 

Thy  cold,  damp,  frost-bound  bank  is  like  a  rock; 
Thy  green,  unsightly  brown;   and  bare 
The  stems  that  made  and  took  a  share 

Of  beauty  with  Thee:  —  all  have  felt  the  shock. 

XVIII. 

A  frost  like  death  came  in  and  changed  the  face 
Of  tree  and  herb.     Up  rose  the  wind, 
And  loud  and  strong,  with  fury  blind, 

Broke  through,  nor  of  thy  beauty  left  a  trace. 


THE  EARLY  SPRING  BROOK.  123 

XIX. 

Awhile  it  roared;  the  faded  leaves  it  tost, 
Then  dashed  them  in  thy  face  in  scorn; 
3T  is  I,  it  said,  thy  bowers  have  torn  ! 

And,  rushing  on,  far  in  the  woods  was  lost. 

XX. 

Thus  ended  thy  bright  festival.     Thy  hall,  - 
The  place  of  song  and  dance  before  — 
Silent  and  barred  its  icy  door; 

And  o'er  Thee  winter  threw  his  cold,  white  pall. 

XXI. 

Its  folds  unwrapped,  thy  doors  now  open  thrown, 
Drops  from  the  shelving  ice  fall  fast ; 
The  light,  too,  shining  in  at  last, 

Shows  straws  and  leaves  along  thy  bottom  strown. 

XXII. 

But  soon  thy  channel  will  again  run  clear 
Along  thy  clean  and  pebbly  bed, 
The  spring  flowers  on  thy  brim  be  fed, 

And  earth's  and  thy  own  music  Thou  shalt  hear. 

XXIII. 

Thou  'It  be  too  merry  then  to  mind  the  sigh 
Heaved  by  the  lonely,  broken  heart, 
Though  near  Thee.     Here,  then,  let  us  part, 

For  there  's  no  spring  for  joys  like  mine,  that  die. 


124  THE  EARLY  SPRING  BROOK. 

XXIV. 

The  blasted  spirit  of  fond,  thoughtful  men 
Can  feel  no  second  earthly  youth: 
Their  sorrows  share  the  strength  of  truth. 

—  At  leaf-fall,  Brook,  I  '11  visit  thee  again. 


"THE   CHANTING   CHERUBS.' 


This  group,  executed  by  H.  Greenough,  for  J.  F.  Cooper,  give  you  a 
feeling  of  unmingled  happiness  as  soon  as  you  cast  your  eyes  upon  them. 
The  two  little  creatures  are  themselves  instinct  with  it;  and  no  sadness 
creeps  over  your  spirit,  as  it  does  when  you  look  upon  a  child  ;  for  then  comes 
in  the  thought  of  frailty  ;  and  you  know  that  when  the  sun  opens  that  bud, 
the  dew  of  its  youth  will  dry  up,  and  that  it  will  fade  soon,  and  all  its  fresh 
ness  and  odour  be  lost.  But  these  little  beings  seem  to  have  lighted  here 
from  a  better  world,  where  happiness  is  as  lasting  as  it  is  pure.  And  so  busy 
and  pleased  are  they  in  their  song  of  praise,  as  not  at  all  to  heed  us  poor 
creatures,  who  stand  gazing  on  them  —  blessed  spirits  ! 

The  execution  of  this  group  is  not  inferior  to  the  conception,  and  Mr. 
Greenough  shows  himself  to  be  a  close  student  of  nature,  and  to  have  a 
hand  as  true  as  his  eye.  What  flesh,  too  '.  you  are  almost  persuaded  that  it 
will  yield  to  your  touch.  The  action,  also,  and  the  dependent  attitude  of 
the  younger  Cherub  is  beautifully  contrasted  with  the  more  erect  posture  and 
the  repose  of  the  older  figure.  Not  the  least  pleasing  thought  connected  with 
this  work  of  art,  is,  that  while  so  many  men  of  genius  disgrace  themselves 
by  envyings  and  detraction,  this  group  was  executed  by  the  first  American 
Sculptor,  for  one  who,  with  C.  B.  Brown,  stands  at  the  head  of  American 
Novelists. 

It  is  a  sin  against  God,  and  a  base  vice,  to  envy  another  his  excellence. 
If  man  would  remember  and  feel  the  words,  It  is  not  of  yourselves :  it  is  the 
gift  of  God,  he  would  be  humble,  and  able  to  rejoice  in  another's  well  doing. 


WHENCE  came  ye,  Cherubs?  from  the  moon? 

Or  from  a  shining  star? 
Ye,  sure,  are  sent,  a  blessed  boon, 

From  kinder  worlds  afar; 
For  while  I  look,  my  heart  is  all  delight: 
Earth  has  no  creatures  half  so  pure  and  bright. 


126  THE    CHANTING    CHERUBS. 

II. 

From  moon,  nor  star,  we  hither  flew; 

The  moon  doth  wane  away ; 
The  stars  —  they  pale  at  morning  dew: 

We're  children  of  the  day; 
Nor  change,  nor  night,  was  ever  ours  to  bear; 
Eternal  light,  and  love,  and  joy,  we  share. 

III. 

Then,  sons  of  light,  from  Heaven  above, 

Some  blessed  news  ye  bring. 
Come  ye  to  chant  eternal  love, 

And  tell  how  angels  sing, 

And  in  your  breathing,  conscious  forms  to  show 
How  purer  forms  above,  live,  breathe,  and  glow? 

IV. 

Our  parent  is  a  human  mind; 

His  winged  thoughts  are  we; 
To  sun,  nor  stars,  are  we  confined: 

We  pierce  the  deepest  sea. 
Moved  by  a  Brother's  call,  our  Father  bade 
Us  light  on  earth:  and  here  our  flight  is  stayed. 


THE  MOSS   SUPPLICATETH   FOR 
THE    POET. 


THOUGH  I  am  humble,  slight  me  not, 
But  love  me  for  the  Poet's  sake; 

Forget  me  not  till  he  's  forgot; 

I,  care  or  slight,  with  him  would  take. 

II. 

For  oft  he  passed  the  blossoms  by, 
And  gazed  on  me  with  kindly  look; 

Left  flaunting  flowers  and  open  sky, 
And  wooed  me  by  the  shady  brook. 

III. 

And  like  the  brook  his  voice  was  low: 
So  soft,  so  sad  the  words  he  spoke, 

That  with  the  stream  they  seemed  to  flow: 
They  told  me  that  his  heart  was  broke;  - 

IV. 

They  said,  the  world  he  fain  would  shun, 
And  seek  the  still  and  twilight  wood  — 

His  spirit,  weary  of  the  sun, 

In  humblest  things  found  chiefest  good; 


128        THE    MOSS    SUPPLICATETH   FOR   THE    POET. 
V. 

That  I  was  of  a  lowly  frame, 

And  far  more  constant  than  the  flower, 
Which,  vain  with  many  a  boastful  name, 

But  fluttered  out  its  idle  hour; 

VI. 

That  I  was  kind  to  old  decay, 

And  wrapt  it  softly  round  in  green, 

On  naked  root,  and  trunk  of  gray, 
Spread  out  a  garniture  and  screen: — 

VII. 

They  said,  that  he  was  withering  fast, 
Without  a  sheltering  friend  like  me; 

That  on  his  manhood  fell  a  blast, 
And  left  him  bare,  like  yonder  tree; 

VIII. 

That  spring  would  clothe  his  boughs  no  more. 
Nor  ring  his  boughs  with  song  of  bird  — 

Sounds  like  the  melancholy  shore 

Alone  were  through  his  branches  heard. 

IX. 

Methought,  as  then,  he  stood  to  trace 
The  withered  stems,  there  stole  a  tear  — 

That  I  could  read  in  his  sad  face,  — 
Brothers,  our  sorrows  make  us  near. 


THE    MOSS  SUPPLICATETII   FOR   THE    POET.         129 

X. 

And  then  he  stretched  him  all  along, 
And  laid  his  head  upon  my  breast, 

Listening  the  water's  peaceful  song. 
How  glad  was  I  to  tend  his  rest! 

XI. 

Then  happier  grew  his  soothed  soul. 

He  turned  and  watched  the  sunlight  play 
Upon  my  face,  as  in  it  stole, 

Whispering,  Above  is  brighter  day! 

XII. 
He  praised  my  varied  hues  —  the  green, 

The  silver  hoar,  the  golden,  brown; 
Said,  Lovelier  hues  were  never  seen; 

Then  gently  prest  my  tender  down. 

XIII, 
And  where  I  sent  up  little  shoots, 

He  called  them  trees,  in  fond  conceit: 
Like  silly  lovers  in  their  suits 

He  talked,  his  care  awhile  to  cheat. 

XIV. 
I  said,  I  'd  deck  me  in  the  dews, 

Could  I  but  chase  away  his  care, 
And  clothe  me  in  a  thousand  hues, 
To  bring  him  joys  that  I  might  share. 
9 


130        THE    MOSS    SUPPLICATETH    FOR    THE    POET. 
XV. 

He  answered,  earth  no  blessing  had 
To  cure  his  lone  and  aching  heart  - 

That  I  was  one,  when  he  was  sad, 
Oft  stole  him  from  his  pain,  in  part. 

XVI. 

But  e'en  from  thee,  he  said  I  go, 

To  meet  the  world,  its  care  and  strife, 
No  more  to  watch  this  quiet  flow, 
Or  spend  with  thee  a  gentle  life. 

XVII. 

And  yet  the  brook  is  gliding-  on, 
And  I,  without  a  care,  at  rest, 

While  back  to  toiling  life  he 's  gone, 
Where  finds  his  head  no  faithful  breast. 

XVIII. 

Deal  gently  with  him,  world,  I  pray; 

Ye  cares,  like  softened  shadows  come; 
His  spirit,  well  nigh  worn  away, 

Asks  with  ye  but  awhile  a  home. 

XIX. 

O,  may  I  live,  and  when  he  dies 
Be  at  his  feet  a  humble  sod; 

O,  may  I  lay  me  where  he  lies, 
To  die  when  he  awakes  in  God! 


A    CLUMP    OF    DAISIES. 


YE  daisies  gay, 

This  fresh  spring  day 
Close  gathered  here  together, 

To  play  in  the  light, 

To  sleep  all  the  night, 
To  abide  through  the  sullen  weather: 

II. 

Ye  creatures  bland, 

A  simple  band, 
Ye  free  ones,  linked  in  pleasure, 

And  linked  when  your  forms 

Stoop  low  in  the  storms, 
And  the  rain  comes  down  without  measure; 

III. 

When  wild  clouds  fly 

Athwart  the  sky, 
And  ghostly  shadows,  glancing, 

Are  darkening  the  gleam 

Of  the  hurrying  stream, 
And  your  close,  bright  heads  gaily  dancing; 


A    CLUMP    OF    DAISIES. 
IV. 

Though  dull  awhile, 

Again  ye  smile; 
For,  see,  the  warm  sun  breaking; 

The  stream  's  going  glad, 

There  's  nothing  now  sad, 
And  the  small  bird  his  song  is  waking. 

V. 

The  dewdrop  sip 

With  dainty  lip  ! 
The  sun  is  low  descended. 

And,  Moon  !  softly  fall 

On  troop  true  and  small  ! 
Sky  and  earth  in  one  kindly  blended. 

VI. 

And,  Morning !  spread 

Their  jewelled  bed 
With  lights  in  the  east  sky  springing  ! 

And,  Brook!  breathe  around 

Thy  low  murmured  sound  ! 
May  they  move,  ye  Birds,  to  your  s 

VII. 

For  in  their  play 

I  hear  them  say, 
Here,  man,  thy  wisdom  borrow: 

In  heart  be  a  child, 

In  word,  true  and  mild: 
Hold  hy  faith,  come  joy,  or  come  sorrow. 


CHANTREY'S    WASHINGTON. 


"  And  thou  art  home  again  in  marble  ! 
Remembered  be  thy  name  in  poets'  story, 
Who  led  the  land  through  fire  and  blood  to  glory 
Our  Father,  next  to  Him  in  heaven  !  " 


FATHER  and  Chief,  how  calm  thou  stand's!  once  more 
Upon  thine  own  free  land,  thou  won'st  through  toil ! 
Seest  thou  upon  thy  Country's  robe  a  soil, 
As  she  comes  down  to  greet  thee  on  the  shore  ? 


II. 


For  thought  in  that  fine  brow  is  living  still  — 
Such  thought,  as  looking  far  off  into  time, 
Casting  by  fear,  stood  up  in  strength  sublime, 
When  odds  in  war  shook  vale  and  shore  and  hill  — 


III. 


Such  thought  as  then  possessed  thee,  when  was  laid 
Our  deep  foundation  —  when  the  fabric  shook 
With  the  wrathful  surge  which  high  against  it  broke  — - 
When  at  thy  voice  the  blind,  wild  sea  was  stayed. 


134  CHANTREY'S  WASHINGTON. 

IV. 

Hast  heard  our  strivings,  that  thou  look'st  away 
Into  the  future,  pondering  still  our  fate 
With  thoughtful  mind?     Thou  readest,  sure,  the  date 
To  strifes  —  thou  seest  a  glorious  coming  day; 

V. 

For  round  those  lips  dwells  sweetness,  breathing  good 
To  sad  men's  souls,  and  bidding  them  take  heart, 
Nor  live  the  shame  of  those  who  bore  their  part 
When  round  their  towering  *Saul  they  banded  stood. 


No  swelling  pride  in  that  firm,  ample  chest ! 
The  full  rich  robe  falls  round  thee,  fold  on  fold, 
With  easy  grace,  in  thy  scarce  conscious  hold  : 
How  simple  in  thy  grandeur  —  strong  in  rest ! 

VII. 

'T  is  like  thee:  Such  repose  thy  living  form 
Wrapt  round.     Though  some  chained  passion,  break 
ing  forth, 

At  times  swept  o'er  thee  like  the  fierce,  dread  north, 
Yet  calmer,  nobler  cam'st  thou  from  the  storm. 

VIII. 

O,  mystery  past  thought  !  that  the  cold  stone 
Should  live  to  us,  take  shape,  and  to  us  speak  - 
That  he,  in  mind,  in  grandeur  like  the  Greek, 
And  he,  our  pride,  stand  here,  the  two  in  one ! 

*  Saul,  "  from  his  shoulders  and  upward  was  higher  than  any  of  the  people." 


CHANTREY'S  WASHINGTON.  135 

IX. 

There 's  awe  in  thy  still  form.     Come  hither,  then, 
Ye  that  o'erthrong  the  land,  and  ye  shall  know 
What  greatness  is,  nor  please  ye  in  its  show  — 
Come,  look  on  him,  would  ye  indeed  be  men ! 


THE    LITTLE    BEACH    BIRD. 


THOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice? 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
Along  the  waves  dost  thou  fly? 
O!  rather,  Bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice! 

II. 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us:     Thy  wail  - 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

III. 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad;   as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge  — 
The  Mystery  — The  Word. 


THE    LITTLE    BEACH    BIRD.  137 

IV. 

Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean,  art!  A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells  — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

V. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


DAYBREAK. 


"  The  Pilgrim  they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber,  whose  window  opened 
towards  the  sun  rising :  the  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace  ;  where  he 
slept  till  break  of  day,  and  then  he  awoke  and  sang." 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress. 


Now,  brighter  than  the  host  that  all  night  long, 

In  fiery  armour,  far  up  in  the  sky 

Stood  watch,  thou  com'st  to  wait  the  morning's  song, 

Thou  com'st  to  tell  me  day  again  is  nigh, 

Star  of  the  dawning  !  Cheerful  is  thine  eye ; 

And  yet  in  the  broad  day  it  must  grow  dim. 

Thou  seem'st  to  look  on  me,  as  asking  why 

My  mourning  eyes  with  silent  tears  do  swim; 

Thou  bid'st  me  turn  to  God,  and  seek  my  rest  in  Him. 

II. 

Canst   thou  grow  sad,  thou  sayest,  as  earth  grows 

bright? 

And  sigh,  when  little  birds  begin  discourse 
In  quick,  low  voices,  ere  the  streaming  light 
Pours  on  their  nests,  from  out  the  day's  fresh  source? 


DAYBREAK. 


139 


With  creatures  innocent  thou  must  perforce 

A  sharer  be,  if  that  thine  heart  be  pure. 

And  holy  hour  like  this,  save  sharp  remorse, 

Of  ills  and  pains  of  life  must  be  the  cure, 

And  breathe  in  kindred  calm,  and  teach  thee  to  endure. 

III. 

I  feel  its  calm.     But  there  's  a  sombrous  hue, 

Edging  that  eastern  cloud,  of  deep,  dull  red; 

Nor  glitters  yet  the  cold  and  heavy  dew; 

And  all  the  woods  and  hill-tops  stand  outspread 

With  dusky  lights,  which  warmth  nor  comfort  shed. 

Still  —  save  the  bird  that  scarcely  lifts  its  song  — 

The  vast  world  seems  the  tomb  of  all  the  dead  — 

The  silent  city  emptied  of  its  throng, 

And  ended,  all  alike,  grief,  mirth,  love,  hate  and  wrong. 

IV. 

But  wrong,  and  hate,  and  love,  and  grief,  and  mirth 
Will  quicken  soon;   and  hard,  hot  toil  and  strife, 
With  headlong  purpose,  shake  this  sleeping  earth 
With  discord  strange,  and  all  that  man  calls  life. 
With  thousand  scattered  beauties  nature  's  rife; 
And  airs,  and  woods,  and  streams  breathe  harmonies :  — 
Man  weds  not  these,  but  taketh  art  to  wife; 
Nor  binds  his  heart  with  soft  and  kindly  ties:  — 
He,  feverish,  blinded,  lives,  and,  feverish,  sated,  dies. 


140  DAYBREAK. 

V. 

It  is  because  man  useth  so  amiss 

Her  dearest  blessings,  Nature  seemeth  sad; 

Else  why  should  she  in  such  fresh  hour  as  this 

Not  lift  the  veil,  in  revelation  glad, 

From  her  fair  face  ?  —  It  is  that  man  is  mad  ! 

Then  chide  me  not,  clear  Sta'r,  that  I  repine, 

When  nature  grieves;  nor  deem  this  heart  is  bad. 

Thou  look 'st   toward  earth;  but  yet  the  heavens  are 

thine; 
While  I  to  earth  am  bound:  —  When  will  the  heavens 

be  mine? 

VI. 

If  man  would  but  his  finer  nature  learn, 
And  not  in  life  fantastic  lose  the  sense 
Of  simpler  things;   could  nature's  features  stern 
Teach  him  be  thoughtful,  then,  with  soul  intense, 
I  should  not  yearn  for  God  to  take  me  hence, 
But  bear  my  lot,  albeit  in  spirit  bowed, 
Remembering  humbly  why  it  is,  and  whence: 
But  when  I  see  cold  man  of  reason  proud, 
My  solitude  is  sad  —  I  'in  lonely  in  the  crowd. 

VII. 

But  not  for  this  alone,  the  silent  tear 
Steals  to  mine  eyes,  while  looking  on  the  morn, 
Nor  for  this  solemn  hour:  fresh  life  is  near;  — 
But  all  my  joys  !  —  they  died  when  newly  born. 


DAYBREAK. 


Thousands  will  wake  to  joy;  while  I,  \ 

And  like  the  stricken  deer,  with  sickly  eye 

Shall  see  them  pass.  Breathe  calm  —  my  spirit 's  torn ; 

Ye  holy  thoughts,  lift  up  my  soul  on  high  !  • 

Ye  hopes  of  things  unseen,  the  far-off  world  bring  nigh. 

VIII. 

And  when  I  grieve,  O,  rather  let  it  be 
That  I  —  whom  nature  taught  to  sit  with  her 
On  her  proud  mountains,  by  her  rolling  sea- 
Who  when  the  winds  are  up,  with  mighty  stir 
Of  woods  and  waters  —  feel  the  quick'ning  spur 
To  my  strong  spirit;  — who,  as  my  own  child, 
Do  love  the  flower,  and  in  the  ragged  bur 
A  beauty  see  —  that  I  this  mother  mild 
Should  leave,  and  go  with  care,  and  passions  fierce 
and  wild ! 

IX. 

How  suddenly  that  straight  and  glittering  shaft, 

Shot  'thwart  the  earth  !  In  crown  of  living  fire 

Up  comes  the  Day  !  As  if  they  conscious  quaft  — 

The  sunny  flood,  hill,  forest,  city  spire 

Laugh  in  the  wakening  light.  — Go,  vain  desire  ! 

The  dusky  lights  are  gone ;  go  thou  thy  way  ! 

And  pining  discontent,  like  them,  expire  ! 

Be  called  my  chamber,  PEACE,  when  ends  the  day; 

And  let  me  with  the  dawn,  like  PILGRIM,  sing  and  pray. 


PROSE    WRITINGS, 


THE   WRITER   OF   THE   IDLE   MAN, 


TO    HIS    OLD    FRIENDS. 


LET  me  say,  first  of  all,  that  although  I  address  you  in  this 
letter,  as  the  writer  of  "The  Idle  Man,"  I  have  concluded  (I 
hardly  know  why)  to  drop  the  title,  in  bringing  the  contents  of 
that  work  once  more  before  the  public. 

It  is  a  little  over  ten  years  since  I  sent  forth  my  last  number 
of  the  Idle  Man.  It  was  the  first  number  of  an  intended 
second  volume  :  I  had  not  long  before  closed  the  first  volume,  in 
these  words  :  —  "  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  have  our  lonely  labours 
helped  on  by  the  remembrance  that  they  have  met  with  kind 
encouragement,  and  by  the  belief  that  they  will  meet  with  still 
more."  In  this  belief,  however,  I  was  mistaken  ;  and  I  found 
it  necessary  to  stop  the  work.  It  was  painful  to  do  so  ;  for  the 
continual  stimulus  of  an  interesting  purpose  before  me,  kept  the 
mind  clear  and  active,  and  the  spirits  elastic  under  the  weight 
that  pressed  upon  them.  It  is  true  that  I  had  disagreeable  things 
to  encounter ;  as  what  man  has  not  who  is  somewhat  newly 
before  the  public  ?  especially  if  he  discovers  individuality  of 
character,  earnestness  of  feeling,  and  a  steady  reliance  upon  his 
own  opinions  and  tastes. 

I  should,  indeed,  have  been  wanting  to  myself,  had  I  suffered 
these  obstructions  to  trouble  me,  any  further  than  they  stopped 
the  way  to  needed  pecuniary  success.  And,  why  should  they 
have  troubled  me  further  ?  I  never  much  affected  notoriety  ;  so, 
there  were  no  ambitious  desires  to  be  crossed  on  that  road.  I 
had  the  approbation  of  those  whose  opinions  I  had  always  held 
in  honour  ;  and  what  was  far  better  and  more  heart-comforting", 
I  had  their  sympathy  and  their  love.  Last  of  all,  let  me  be 
allowed  to  say,  that  I  could  not  feel  such  an  inferiority  to 
10 


146 


those  who  were  given  to  fault-finding',  as  to  be  shaken  in  my 
humble  trust  in  those  powers  with  which  God  had  seen  fit  to 
bless  me. 

I 'have  alluded  to  these  things,  to  account  for  a  long  silence, 
seldom  broken.  For  though  I  cannot  bow  to  a  certain  dicta 
torial  manner  in  which  the  claims  of  the  public  upon  the  indi 
vidual  are  now-a-days  apt  to  be  asserted,  yet  I  feel  as  much  as 
any  man  the  obligation  upon  each  one  to  do,  according  to  his 
ability,  for  that  world  in  which  the  Creator  has  placed  him. 

If  I  am  now  asked,  what  it  is  that  encourages  me  to  come 
once  more  before  the  public,  notwithstanding  my  former  disap 
pointment  ;  I  would  answer,  that  I  am  better  known  now  than 
I  was  then,  and  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  proportionably,  at  least, 
more  in  favour ;  and  that,  although  the  majority  are,  for  the 
present,  running  into  physical  pursuits,  yet  of  those  who  keep 
their  hold  upon  literature,  there  is  a  rapidly  increasing  class  be 
tween  whose  speculations,  opinions,  and  tastes,  and  my  own, 

can/eei  there  is  growing  up  a  social  and  cheering  agreement. 
And  this  is  a  delightful  reflection  to  me  ;  for  to  feel  solitary, 
even  in  that  which  is  in  itself  innocent,  is  sad,  and  hurts  our 
hearts  too,  if  we  keep  not  a  watch  over  them. 

And,  here,  I  would  say  :  Let  any  one  who  has  an  inward  con 
viction  that  he  holds  the  truth  (no  matter  what  the  subject) 
gather  strength  from  hence,  and  feel  assured,  that  although  the 
multitude  immediately  around  him,  with  but  a  few  exceptions, 
may  differ  from  him,  yet  there  are  still  seven  thousand,  some 
where  in  Israel,  who  have  not  bowed  the  knee  : — It  is  not 
strange  that  the  united  company  around  us  should  believe  them 
selves  to  be  "  all  the  world  ;  "  but  it  is  strange  that  those  who 
agree  with  them  in  little  beside,  should  ever  think  them  so  too. 
I  am  aware  that  my  writings  may  never  make  me,  what  is 
called,  "  a  general  favourite  ;"  and,  if,  from  the  study  of  myself 
and  others,  I  had  not  long  ago  come  to  this  conclusion,  the  con 
cern  for  me  of  some  well-meaning  acquaintances  would  ere  this 
have  led  me  to  it. 

When,  for  instance,  I  have  been  heard  to  speak  of  that  delight 
ful  gentleman,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Crayon,  so  tender  and  moving, 
when  he  chooses  to  be  so,  yet  so  delicately  blending  the  humor 
ous  with  the  sad,  (a  rare  power,  and  one  in  which  he  has  scarcely 
been  surpassed  since  the  days  of  the  old  dramatists,)  and  possess 
ed  withal,  of  such  winning  good-nature,  and  such  grace,  —  I 


147 


have  been  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  question  ;  Why  don't  you 
write  a  few  tales  like  Mr.  Crayon's  ? 

And,  so,  when  I  have  spoken  of  Mr.  Cooper,  of  his  Leather 
Stocking,  (a  character  hardly  surpassed  in  modern  fiction,  if 
taken  in  irts  true  order,  through  the  three  novels,)  or,  generally, 
of  his  naturalness,  of  his  vivid  and  clear  description,  his  rapid 
action  and  lightning-like  revelation  of  passion,  —  1  have  been 
asked,  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  why  I  did  not  undertake  a 
novel  after  Mr.  Cooper's  manner. 

And  what,  I  have  replied,  would  Mr.  Crayon  have  brought 
to  pass,  had  he,  for  instance,  attempted  to  write  like  that  extra 
ordinary  man,  Charles  Brockden  Brown  ?  And  where  would 
Mr.  Cooper  have  been  by  this  time,  had  he  followed  in  the  foot 
steps  of  Mr.  Crayon,  over  smooth  lawns,  and  by  bright  prat 
tling  brooks,  or  the  little  calm-surfaced,  heaven-reflecting  lake  ? 
I  do  much  wonder  whether  some  people  ever  heard  of  the 

word,  Idiosyncrasy.     And  I  wonder,  might  exclaim  Mr. , 

whether  they  ever  heard  of  the  word,  Phrenology. 

I  know    not  how   it   may  be  with  others  ;  but  if  I  am  to 

write  fiction,   which  shall  have  in  it  the   character    and  the 

force  of  truth,  it  must,  in  very  deed,  be  truth  to  me,  at  the  time. 

I  have  left  out  of  the  present  volume  all  the  articles  in  the 

Idle  Man  which  were  not  from  my  own  pen. 

Separating  from  my  own  that  with  which  my  friends  furnished 
me,  is  like  parting  with  old  companions.  "  The  Hypochon 
driac  "  must  here  take  his  leave  of  the  world,  for  the  present, 
and  the  public  must  give  up  a  little  more  good  prose,  and  some 
true  poetry.  But  the  poetry  from  Mr.  Bryant  they  will  not 
lose;  —  that  they  will  find  lying  amongst  his  other  beautiful 
and  precious  things  in  the  work  which  he  not  long  ago  gave  to 
the  world. 

But,  "  The  West  Wind  !  "  the  title  of  the  last  thing  which  he 
wrote  for  me  —  I  must  part  with  that  too.  If  it  had  been  writ 
ten  purposely  to  follow  "  Paul  Felton,"  it  could  not  have  been 
more  appropriate,  it  breathed  such  a  calm  through  one,  after 
witnessing  the  struggles  of  that  wretched  man.  Beautiful  as  it 
is  in  itself,  it  will  never  be  the  same  gentle  air  to  me  any  where 
else  ;  nor  will  the  pines  give  out  that  same  saddening,  yet  sooth 
ing  murmur  which  they  did  when  they  grew  by  the  graves  of 
Paul  and  Esther  :  —  I  wish  they  were  growing  there  still ! 

Will  my  old  friends  allow  me  to  close  with  a  word  to  those 
whom  I  hope  before  long  to  call  my  young  friends  ? 


148 


Some  who  were  members  of  one  or  another  of  our  many  col 
leges  when  the  Idle  Man  appeared,  have  since  told  me,  that 
could  I  have  known  of  the  interest  which  was  taken  in  it  at 
those  institutions,  and  the  feelings  it  called  out  towards  me,  I 
should  not  have  given  it  up  as  I  did.  I  think  I  should  not  have 
done  so ;  for  I  have  always  looked  with  deep  interest  upon  the 
early  forming  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  character ;  and  the 
love  of  the  young  for  me  takes  a  strong  hold  upon  my  heart. 
And  when  I  remember  what  seeds  of  affection  and  sentiment, 
of  poetry  and  all  spiritual  aspirations,  are  sown  in  the  young,  to 
germinate,  or  to  die,  as  the  sun  and  dews  may  fall  on  them,  or 
not,  I  cannot  but  have  a  deep  sensation  of  delight,  that  any 
thing  of  mine  should  have  ever  so  little  of  these  unfolding  in 
fluences  upon  them. 

I  shall  never  forget  with  what  feeling  my  friend  Bryant  some 
years  ago  described  to  me  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  his 
meeting  for  the  first  time  with  Wordsworth's  Ballads.  He 
lived,  when  quite  young,  where  but  few  works  of  poetry  wrere 
to  be  had,  at  a  period,  too,  when  Pope  was  still  the  great  idol  in 
the  Temple  of  Art.  He  said,  that  upon  opening  Wordsworth,  a 
thousand  springs  seemed  to  gush  up  at  once  in  his  heart,  and 
the  face  of  nature,  of  a  sudden,  to  change  into  a  strange  fresh 
ness  and  life.  He  had  felt  the  sympathetic  touch  from  an  ac 
cording  mind,  and  you  see  how  instantly  his  powers  and  affec 
tions  shot  over  the  earth  and  through  his  kind. 

If  I  could,  in  my  humble  way,  awaken  some  young  man,  of 
however  inferior  powers  to  our  delightful  poet,  to  a  sensation 
in  any  poor  degree  like  this,  I  should  bless  God  for  it  the  re 
mainder  of  my  days. 

Too  many  of  the  young  of  this  time,  do  need  awakening;  for 
this  is  hardly  the  age  of  profound  philosophy,  of  lofty  imagina 
tion,  or  of  deep  and  simple  sentiment.  But  although  the  age 
is  generally  wanting  in  these  respects,  there  are  a  few  minds  of 
a  noble  order  rising  up,  not  only  abroad,  but  even  in  this  land; 
and  as  they  ascend,  I  can  see  their  intellectual  rays,  while  I 
watch  them  at  a  humble  distance,  stretching  out  more  and  more ; 
and  ere  long  they  will  touch  the  one  the  other,  and  make  one 
common  light,  that  shall  flood  all  lands.  A  more  spiritual  phi 
losophy  than  man  ever  before  looked  on,  and  a  poetry  twin 
with  it,  are  fast  coming  into  full  life.  Yes,  a  day  of  far-spread 
ing  splendour  is  breaking ;  the  clear  streak  of  it  is  already  in  the 


149 

east,  and  the  earth,  even  now,  here  and  there  touched  by  it,  and 
yonder,  t(  the  dawning  hills  !  " 

Why,  my  young  friends,  I  well  remember  the  time  when 
Wordsworth — the  great  Wordsworth  —  served  for  little  else 
than  travesty  to  the  witling,  smartness  to  the  reviewer,  and  for 
a  sneer  to  the  fastidious  pretender  to  taste  ;  and  when,  too,  the 
philosophy  of  Coleridge  was  held  as  little  better  than  a  dream. 
But  now,  he  who  cannot  relish  Wordsworth,  is  advised  to  be 
take  himself  to  the  Annuals ;  and  the  man  who  is  unable  to 
enter  into  the  deep  things  of  Coleridge,  though  he  may  pass  for 
an  alert  dialectician,  must  no  longer  think  of  dictating  from  the 
philosopher's  chair  :  To  profess  to  differ  from  Coleridge  may  be 
safe,  but  to  profess  to  hold  him  to  be  incomprehensible,  would 
now  savour  less  of  a  profession  than  a  confession,  to  be  kept  for 
the  ear  of  some  ghostly  father  alone. 

To  bring  my  unintentionally  long  letter  to  a  close. —  In 
sending  this  volume  into  the  world,  the  Prose  goes  forth  as  an 
elder  brother,  with  his  sister,  Poetry.  She,  it  is  true,  is  not  the 
child  of  my  youth,  yet  not  wanting,  I  hope,  in  the  feelings  of 
youth,  nor  altogether  without  sentiment  and  imagination,  and 
an  eye  for  nature,  and  a  love  of  it,  though  lacking,  I  am  sensible, 
something  of  that  melody  of  voice  and  that  harmony  of  expres 
sion,  which  so  win  upon  us  unawares,  and  by  the  opposite  of 
which  finely  attuned  spirits  are  so  apt  to  be  pained. 

I  will  not  affect  an  indifference  which  I  do  not  feel.  I  have 
an  earnest  desire  for  the  success  of  this  volume,  and  to  that  end, 
for  a  generally  good  opinion  of  it,  although  in  estimating  what 
is  my  own,  as  well  as  what  belongs  to  others,  the  opinion  of  the 
many  is  of  less  weight  with  me,  than  the  judgment  of  the  few. 

To  be  liked  of  those  whose  hearts  and  minds  I  esteem,  would 
be  unspeakable  comfort  to  me,  and  would  open  sympathies  with 
them  in  my  nature,  which  lie  deep  in  the  immortal  part  of  me, 
and  which,  therefore,  though  beginning  in  time,  will  doubtless 
live  on  in  eternity.  To  such  hearts  and  minds  I  now  humbly, 
but  especially  commend  myself. 


TOM    THORNTON. 


—  and  prudent  counsels  fled  ; 
And  bounteous  Fancy,  for  his  glowing  mind, 
Wrought  various  scenes,  and  all  of  glorious  kind. 

CRABBE. 


—  Remorse 
—  defeated  pride, 

Prosperity  subverted,  maddening  want, 
Friendship  betrayed,  affection  unreturned, 
Love  with  despair,  or  grief  in  agony. 

WORDSWORTH. 


Or  to  the  restless  sea  and  roaring  wind, 
Gave  the  strong  yearnings  of  a  ruined  mind. 

CRABBE. 


"Wny,  Mr.  Thornton,  are  you  dreaming?"  said 
Mrs.  Thornton,  trying  to  appear  easy,  and  dropping 
in. her  lap  her  work,  which  she  had  not  set  a  stitch  to 
for  the  last  half  hour.  —  "  I  can't  see  to  thread  my 
needle,  for  the  wick  has  run  up,  till  it  looks  like  a 
very  cock's  comb,  and  the  fire  is  so  low,  that  I  hardly 
feel  the  end  of  my  fingers.  '  T  is  exceedingly  chilly 
about  the  room  —  pray  give  me  my  shawl,  or  I  shall 
perish." 

"Do  as  other  wise  people  do,  my  dear;  look  back 
a  little,  and  you  will  find  your  shawl  on  the  bars  of 
your  chair.  As  to  the  candle,  I  will  see  to  that;  and 


152  TOM  THORNTON. 

if  I  could  take  the  coxcomb  from  our  Tom's  head  as 
easily,  it  would  be  equally  well  for  your  sight." 

"  Ha!  ha!  Now,  Mr.  Thornton,  you  should'nt  try 
to  be  witty  when  you  're  vexed.  You  don't  know 
what  bungling  work  angry  folks  make  at  wit." 

"  True,  my  dear,  —  much  the  same  as  fond  ones,  at 
government." 

Mr.  Thornton  took  his  feet  down  from  the  side  of 
the  fire-place,  and  put  his  spectacles  on  his  nose,  at 
the  same  time  looking  sharply  through  them,  with 
his  gray  eyebrows  thrown  into  double  arches. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Thornton,  I  'm  glad  you're 
at  home  again;  for  you  sat  there  playing  your  spec 
tacles  between  your  fingers,  with  nothing  but  a  gruff* 
hum,  now  and  then,  as  if  you  were  miles  off  in  the 
woods,  and  contriving  how  to  clear  your  wild  lands.'" 

"  I  have  enough  growing  wild  at  my  own  door  to 
see  to,  without  taking  to  the  woods,  and  harder  to 
bring  into  order,  than  any  soil  my  trees  grow  upon, 
however  stubborn." 

Mrs.  Thornton  saw  that  she  could  not  rid  herself 
of  the  difficulty  by  laughing.  She  coloured  and  re 
mained  silent.  She  was  conscious  of  being  too 
indulgent  to  her  son;  and  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
brought  to  a  wiser  course  towards  him,  had  not  her 
husband's  impatience  of  her  weakness,  and  vehement 
opposition  to  her  folly,  and  a  consequent  harshness  in 
his  bearing  towards  Tom,  created  a  kind  of  party 
feeling  within  her,  which,  with  a  common  sort  of 
sophistry,  she  resolved  wholly  into  pity  for  her  child. 
This  was  a  bad  situation  for  the  boy,  for  the  weak 
ness  of  his  mother's  conduct  was  easily  perceived  by 
him,  and  looked  upon  with  a  little  of  contempt,  at  the 
same  time  that  it  made  for  his  convenience ;  while  his 


TOM  THORNTON.  153 

father's  sternness,  which  kept  him  in  check,  and 
which  he  would  gladly  have  been  rid  of,  commanded 
a  qualified  respect.  This  led  him  to  like  what  was 
agreeable,  rather  than  what  was  right,  and  to  lose  the 
distinction  of  principle  in  self-gratification.  And 
though  all  selfishness  hardens  the  heart,  there  is  no  kind 
of  it  which  so  hardens  it  as  a  contempt  for  those  who 
love  us,  and  are  fondly,  though  unwisely,  contribut 
ing  to  our  pleasures.  To  hate  our  enemies  is  not  so 
bad  as  to  despise  our  friends.  The  cold,  hard  tri 
umph  of  prosperity  is  a  worse  sin  than  that  which  eats 
into  us  in  the  rancour  of  adversity ;  and  it  is  more  decep 
tive  too;  for  good  fortune  has  something  joyous  in  it, 
even  to  the  morose,  who  oftentimes  mistake  their 
gladness  for  a  general  good  will,  while  they  play  with 
the  miseries  of  some,  only  to  make  others  laugh. 

Even  vehement  and  inconsiderate  tempers,  who 
take  fire  as  quick  in  another's  cause  as  in  their  own, 
lose  their  generosity,  where  too  much  is  ministered 
to  their  will;  and  what  was  only  a  warm  resentment 
of  another's  wrong,  may  come  to  be  nothing  else,  but 
a  feeling  of  power  and  a  love  of  victory. 

Mr.  Thornton  saw  the  confused  expression  in  his 
wife's  face,  and  his  sharp,  sudden  look  relaxed  into 
one  of  mild  and  melancholy  reproach,  while  she  sat 
pricking  her  finger,  as  she  tried  to  seem  intent  upon 
hurrying  on  her  work.  He  pulled  out  his  watch,  and 
continued  looking  at  it  some  time,  taking  an  uneasy 
kind  of  delight  in  seeing  the  minute-hand  go  forward, 
and  in  wishing  it  later. 

"  It  is  not  very  late,  I  hope,  Mr.  Thornton." 

"  O,  no, — but  a  little  past  one  —  a  very  reasonable 
hour  for  a  boy  to  be  out  —  and  at  a  cockfight,  too." 

"  But,  Mr.  Thornton,  had  you  heard  how  earnestly 


154  TOM  THORNTON. 

he  importuned  me,  you  would  not  wonder  at  my  giv 
ing  him  leave.  He  promised  to  return  early.  But 
boys,  you  know,  never  think  of  time  when  about  their 
amusements." 

"It  is  not  of  much  consequence  that  they  should, 
when  their  amusements  are  so  humane  and  innocent. 
A  cockpit  must  be  an  excellent  school  for  a  lad  of 
Tom's  mild  disposition." 

Some  couples  have  particular  points  of  union,  but 
more  have  those  of  disagreement;  and  from  the  fre 
quency  with  which  both  return  to  their  several  kinds, 
it  would  be  hard  to  tell  which  kind  affords  the  most 
pleasure. 

There  was  but  one  subject  on  which  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  were  at  odds  with  each  other,  but  to  make 
up  for  the  want  of  more,  it  was  one  of  very  frequent 
occurrence;  and  had  not  Tom  suddenly  made  his 
appearance,  there  is  no  knowing  how  far  the  bitter 
taunting  of  the  old  gentleman  would  have  gone. 

Tom  entered  the  room,  his  crisp,  black  hair  off  his 
forehead,  his  swarthy  complexion  flushed  with  excite 
ment  from  the  conflict  he  had  just  witnessed;  his 
mouth  firmly  set,  his  nostrils  expanded,  and  his  eye 
fiery  and  dilated.  He  had  a  marked  cast  of  features, 
the  muscles  of  his  face  worked  strongly,  and  his  mo 
tions  were  hasty,  impetuous,  and  threatening.  His 
countenance  was  open  and  manly,  and  it  seemed  to 
depend  upon  the  mere  turn  of  circumstances  whether 
he  was  to  make  a  good,  or  a  bad  man.  He  was  sur 
prised,  and  a  little  abashed  for  a  moment,  at  finding 
his  father  up.  He  looked  at  his  mother,  as  if  to  say 
she  had  betrayed  him;  and  his  mother  looked  at  him, 
as  if  to  upbraid  him  for  breaking  his  word  by  staying 
so  late,  and  thus  bringing  his  father's  displeasure  upon 
both. 


TOM    THORNTON.  155 

"  I  suppose  that  I  may  go  to  bed  now,  as  you  have 
seen  fit  to  return  home  at  last,  my  young  gentleman? 
And  did  you  bet  on  the  winning  cock,  or  are  you  to 
draw  on  me  to  pay  off  your  debt  of  honour?" 

"I  betted  no  higher  than  I  had  money  to  pay;  " 
answered  Tom,  proudly:  "  and  I  care  not  if  I  go  with 
an  empty  pocket  for  a  month  to  come,  for  he  was  a 
right  gallant  fellow  I  lost  upon." 

Angry  as  his  father  was,  the  careless  generosity  of 
Tom's  manner  touched  his  pride.  "  You  are  mala 
pert.  But  this  comes  of  late  hours,  and  dissipation. 
We  '11  have  no  more  of  it.  Get  you  to  bed,  Sir;  and 
look  to  it  that  you  do  not  gaff  the  old  rooster,  —  I  '11 
have  no  blood  spilt  on  my  grounds." 

''Never  without  your  leave,  Sir,"  said  Tom,  his 
mouth  drawing  into  a  smile  at  his  father's  simplicity. 
And  glad  to  be  let  off  so  easily,  he  went  to  bed,  laugh 
ing  at  the  thought  of  their  old  dunghill,  blind  of  one 
eye,  dying  game.  "  They  must  have  been  but  simple 
lads  in  my  father's  day,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  as  he 
blew  out  his  candle,  and  threw  himself  into  bed  to 
dream  over  the  fight. 

"Tom  is  not  so  bad  a  boy,  neither,"  said  Mr. 
Thornton,  putting  the  fender  before  the  fire,  and  pre 
paring  to  go  to  bed.  "  And  I  see  not  why  he  should 
not  make  a  proper  man  enough,  were  there  no  one  to 
take  all  the  pains  in  the  world  to  spoil  him." 

In  a  few  minutes  all  was  quiet  in  the  house. 

Tom  had  now  reached  that  age,  in  which  it  is  pretty 
well  determined  whether  the  passions  are  to  be  our 
masters  or  servants.  He  had  never  thought  for  a 
moment  of  checking  his;  and  if  they  were  less  vio 
lent  at  one  time  than  at  another,  it  was  because  he 
was  swayed  for  the  instant  by  some  gentler  impulse, 


156  TOM    THORNTON. 

and  not  that  he  was  restrained  by  principle.  His 
father's  late  mild  treatment  of  hirn  seemed  to  have  a 
softening  effect  upon  his  disposition,  and  for  a  few 
days  he  appeared  at  rest,  and  free  from  starts  of  pas 
sion.  But  some  little  incidents  soon  brought  back  his 
father's  severity  of  manner,  and  this  the  son's  spirit 
of  opposition,  the  mother's  weakness  serving  all  the 
while  as  a  temptation  to  his  love  of  power .  Every 
day  occasioned  a  fresh  difficulty.  Tom  decided  all 
the  disputes  in  the  school,  it  mattered  little  with  him 
whether  by  force  or  persuasion.  And  as  he  feared  no 
one  living,  and  generally  sided  with  the  weakest, 
partly  from  a  love  of  displaying  his  daring  and  prow 
ess,  and  partly  from  a  hatred  of  all  tyranny  but  his 
own,  he  frequently  came  home  with  his  clothes  torn 
and  face  bloody  and  bruised.  This,  however,  might 
be  said  for  Tom,  he  was  the  favourite  of  the  smaller 
boys.  He  cared  not  to  domineer,  where  it  showed 
neither  skill  nor  courage.  His  poor  mother  was  filled 
with  constant  trembling  and  alarm,  which  served  as  a 
petty  amusement  to  him;  and,  from  the  most  violent 
rage,  after  one  of  these  contests,  he  often  broke  out 
into  a  loud  laugh  at  the  plaintive  sound  of  his  moth 
er's  lament  over  him. 

Among  Tom's  other  accomplishments,  he  was  a 
great  whip.  So,  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one, 
he  contrived,  with  the  assistance  of  a  school-fellow  as 
wild  as  himself,  to  put  a  young,  fiery  horse,  which  his 
father  had  just  purchased,  to  a  new  gig.  The  horse 
was  restiff —  Tom  grew  angry  and  whipped  him  —  his 
companion  was  thrown  out  and  broke  his  arm;  but 
Tom,  with  the  usual  success  of  the  active  and  daring, 
cleared  himself  unhurt.  The  gig,  however,  was 
dashed  to  pieces,  and  his  father's  fine  horse  ruined. 


TOM    THORNTON.  157 

Not  long  after  this,  and  before  his  father's  anger 
had  time  to  cool,  Tom,  with  some  of  his  play-mates, 
was  concerned  in  breaking  the  windows  of  a  miserly 
neighbour,  that  they  might  make  him  loosen  his  purse 
strings.  One  of  the  smallest  boys  was  detected,  and 
upon  refusing  to  give  information  of  the  rest,  the 
master  began  flogging  him  severely.  Tom  would  have 
taken  the  whipping  himself,  but  he  knew  this  would 
not  save  the  lad,  unless  he  made  the  others  known; 
besides,  he  had  an  utter  detestation  of  mean  and  cow 
ardly  acts,  and  could  not  brook  that  the  little  fellow 
should  be  punished  for  not  turning  traitor.  Tom  sprung 
upon  his  seat,  and  crying  out,  "  A  rescue  !  "  was  fol 
lowed  by  the  other  boys;  and  in  an  instant  the  master 
was  brought  to  the  floor.  Lying  upon  one's  back  is 
not  a  favorable  posture  for  dignity  —  certainly  not  in 
a  schoolmaster.  Though  a  good  deal  intimidated, 
the  master  frowned  and  stormed  and  threatened;  but 
Tom  was  not  to  be  frightened  at  words  and  looks. 
Indeed,  the  ludicrous  situation  of  his  instructor,  the 
novelty  of  it,  and  his  mock  authoritative  manner,  put 
Tom  into  such  a  fit  of  laughter,  that  he  could  hardly 
utter  his  conditions  of  release.  There  was  nothing 
'jut  shouting  and  uproar  through  the  school;  and  it 
was  not  till  a  promise  of  full  pardon  to  all  concerned, 
that  the  master  was  allowed  to  rise. 

Tom  knew  that  this  would  end  his  school-boy  days, 
and  so  far,  he  was  not  sorry  for  what  had  happened; 
for  he  longed  to  be  free  and  abroad  amid  the  adven 
tures  of  the  world.  "  Let  it  all  go,"  said  he,  walking 
forward  with  a  full  swing;  "  if  I  have  been  wild  and 
head-strong,  I  have  not  altogether  wasted  my  time. 
And  I  '11  so  better  my  instruction,  that  I  will  one  day 
be  among  men,  what  I  have  been  among  boys.  And 
who  will  dare  say,  Nay,  to  Tom  Thornton?  " 


158  TOM    THORNTON. 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  house,  he  slackened  his 
pace;  and  forgetting  his  views  of  power,  began  to 
consider  how  he  should  meet  his  father. 

"It  will  be  all  out  in  less  than  four  and  twenty 
hours,  and  I  had  better  have  the  merit  of  telling  it 
myself.  This  will  go  some  way  towards  my  pardon, 
for  the  old  man,  with  all  his  severity,  likes  openness, 
—  it  has  saved  me  many  a  whipping,  when  I  was 
younger.  So,  thou  almost  only  virtue  I  possess,  let 
me  make  the  most  of  thee  while  thou  stickcst  by  me." 

He  was,  indeed,  a  forthright  lad,  not  because  he 
considered  openness  a  virtue,  but  because  it  agreed 
with  the  vehemence  and  daring  of  his  character,  and 
gratified  his  pride. 

With  all  his  self-reliance,  his  heart  beat  quick  as 
he  drew  near  the  door.  He  thought  of  his  father's 
strict  notions  of  government,  his  own  numerous  of 
fences  of  late,  the  sternness  and  quickness  of  his 
father's  temper,  and  the  violence  and  obstinacy  of  his 
own;  and  he  could  not  but  dread  the  consequences  of 
the  meeting. 

"  Why  should  I  stand  like  a  coward,  arguing  the 
matter  with  myself,  when  I  know  well  enough  that 
there  is  but  one  way  of  acting?  The  sooner  begun, 
the  sooner  over;  the  worst  has  an  end." 

So  saying,  he  threw  open  the  door,  and  went 
directly  to  his  father's  room.  Mr.  Thornton  was  not 
there.  He  passed  as  hastily  from  one  room  to  another, 
as  if  in  pursuit  of  some  one  who  was  trying  to  escape 
him,  inquiring  quickly  for  his  father  of  everybody  he 
met.  He  at  last  went  to  his  mother*)!  chamber,  and 
knocking,  but  scarcely  waiting  for  an  answer,  entered, 
and  asked  abruptly,  "  Where  is  he?  " 

"Who,  my  dear?" 


TOM    THORN TON.  159 

"Dear  me  no  dears,  I  'm  not  in  a  humour  for  it. 
Where's  my  father?  " 

"Your  father,  child!  He's  gone  to  the  village. 
But  what 's  the  matter?  Something  dreadful,  I'm 
sure.  O,  Thomas,  you  make  my  life  miserable." 

"  Humph!  "  said  Tom,  drawing  his  lips  close  to 
gether.  "Gone  to  the  village!  Then  every  old 
woman  there  has  blabbed  it  over  and  over  again  in 
his  ears,  and  with  a  thousand  lies  tagged  to  it,  and  as 
many  malicious  condolences  about  his  hotheaded  son. 
Nothing  puts  my  father  into  such  a  fury  as  the  whin 
ing  of  these  old  crones.  Ah,  I  see  the  jig  's  up,  and 
all  my  honesty  comes  to  nothing.  Well,  it  can't  be 
helped;  —  it  is  corning." 

:£  What  can  't  be  helped  ?  Why  don  't  you  speak  to 
me,  Thomas,  and  tell  me  what 's  the  matter?  " 

"Ah!  mother,  is  it  you?  —  I  was  thinking  about 

What's  the  matter,  ask  you?  Matter  enough, 

truly.  There  's  young  Star  sold  for  a  lame  cart-horse 
—  a  gallant  fiery  steed  you  were  too,  Star;  —  the  gay 
furbished  gig  dashed  into  as  many  fragments  as  your 
chandelier,  and  gone  with  Pharaoh's  chariot  wheels, 
for  aught  I  know.  Mother,  I've  been  in  too  great  a 
hurry  ever  since,  to  ask  your  pardon  for  running  foul 
your  chandelier  yesterday.  But  rny  father  came'in  so 
close  upon  me,  he  liked  to  have  cut  his  foot  with  the 
pieces.  There  's  another  mark  to  my  list  of  sins. 
Then  there  's  the  breaking  of  Jack's  head  for  not  mind 
ing  me  instead  of  my  father,  and  a  score  more  of  worse 
things,  and  all  within  these  six  days." 

"  O,  Thomas,   Thomas,  what  will  become  of  us?  " 

"  Become  of  us!  Why,  't  is  none  of  your  doings, 
Mother.  You  never  broke  the  gig,  or  lamed  Star, 
or  cudgeled  Jack,  that  I  know  of.  But  reserve  your 
grief  awhile,  for  the  worst  is  behind." 


160  TOM    THORNTON. 

"Worst,  Thomas!  I  shall  lose  my  senses.  Your 
father  mutters  about  you  in  his  very  sleep;  and  he  has 
threatened  of  late  to  send  you  out  of  the  house,  if  you 
go  on  at  such  a  rate." 

"  I  know  it.  Yet  I  hardly  think  he  would  turn  me 
adrift.  What  if  he  does?  There  is  room  enough; 
and  come  fair  or  foul,  I've  a  ready  hand  and  a  stout 
heart." 

"  You  will  certainly  kill  your  unhappy  mother  if 
you  talk  so.  Your  father  says  your  conduct  is  all 
owing  to  my  indulgence,  and  you  have  no  gratitude 
or  pity  for  me." 

"  In  faith,  Mother,  I  fear  my  father  has  the  right 
on  't.  Come,  come,  don't  make  yourself  miserable 
about  such  an  overgrown  boy  as  I  am,  and  I  '11  tell  the 
rest  of  my  story. 

"  Mother,  I  'm  a  rebel  and  an  outlaw;  and  the  worst 
of  it  is,  my  father's  notions  of  government  are  as  high 
as  the  Gnmd  Turk's.  Yes,  we  had  old  pedagogue 
flat  on  his  back;  and  he  could  no  more  turn  over  than 
a  turtle.  And  such  a  sprawling  as  he  made  of  it ! 
And  when  we  let  him  up,  could  you  but  have  seen  how 
he  trembled,  every  joint  of  him,  —  knees  and  elbows ! " 

Here  Tom  fell  a  laughing,  and  his  mother  burst 
into  tears.  Though  her  weak  fondness  for  her  son 
took  away  from  him  nearly  all  respect  for  his  mother, 
still  Tom  loved  her,  and  often  blamed  himself  severely 
that  he  had  given  her  so  much  trouble,  and  so  often 
brought  upon  her  his  father's  displeasure.  His  heart 
was  touched;  and  taking  her  hand,  he  asked  forgive 
ness  for  trifling  with  her  feelings.  "Do  not  think 
that  it  is  because  I  am  careless  of  what  concerns  you. 
You  see  I  play  the  fool  with  my  own  troubles,  and  I 
certainly  am  not  indifferent  about  them." 


TOM    THORNTOX. 


'  f  I  know,  I  know  !  my  son.  But  you  will  meet  with 
nothing  except  evil  in  life,  if  you  do  not  learn  prudence 
and  self-control.  You  have  a  good  heart,  I  believe; 
yet  you  are  giving  constant  pain  and  anxiety  to  your 
best  friends,  and  must,  so  long  as  your  passions  are 
your  masters,  and  you,  violent  and  changing  as  the 
sea. 

Pier  son  promised  to  set  seriously  about  subduing 
his  passions,  and  letting  his  reason  have  more  sway. 
As  Tom  conjectured,  Mr.  Thornton  had  heard  the 
whole  story,  and  with  the  usual  country-village  colour 
ing.  It  was  too  much  for  his  irascible  tempe°r,  goaded 
as  it  had  been  of  late  by  his  son's  inconsiderate  con 
duct.  He  set  off  home  in  great  wrath,  hurrying  over 
Tom's  misdeeds  so  rapidly  and  confusedly,  that  a 
dozen  multiplied  and  changed  places  with  such  swift 
ness,  they  showed  like  a  thousand.  With  his  mind 
thus  filled  with  blind  rage,  and  his  body  fevered  with 
the  speed  with  which  he  walked,  he  entered  the  house 
a  very  unfit  subject  for  Tom  to  begin  the  exercise  of 
his  new  resolutions  upon. 

Tom  had  seen  his  father  coming  along  the  road,  and 
had  gone  to  his  room,  waiting  his  arrival,  with  a  de 
termination  to  relate  the  whole  affair,  confess  his  error 
m  this  and  other  instances,  make  known  his  resolution 
to  change  his  conduct,  and  humbly  ask  forgiveness  for 
the  past,  and  all  in  a  dutiful  and  composed  manner. 

Mr.  Thornton  seized  the  latch,  but  with  a  hand  so 
shaking  with  rage,  that  it  did  not  rise  at  his  touch. 
Heated  and  impatient  as  he  was,  the  least  thing  was 
enough  to  mal^e  him  furious;  he  thrust  his  foot  against 
the  door,  —  it  started  the  catch,  and  sent  it  half  across 
the  room.  The  passing  sense  of  shame  at  his  uncon 
trolled  passion  only  increased  his  anger;  and  seeing 


162  TOM    THORNTON. 

his  son  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  —  "  Block 
head,"  he  cried,  darting  forward,  till  his  face  almost 
touching  Tom's,  his  clinched  fists  pressed  convul 
sively  against  his  thighs,  —  "  blockhead,  dare  you 
fasten  me  out  of  my  own  room? " 

The  unexpected  violence  of  Mr.  Thornton's  man 
ner  rather  surprised  than  irritated  Tom,  and  he  looked 
at  his  father  with  a  composed  and  slightly  contemptu 
ous  cast  of  expression,  without  making  any  reply. 

Mr.  Thornton  was  sensible  how  groundless  his 
charge  was,  the  instant  he  uttered  it.  He  was  for  a 
moment  discomposed,  too,  by  his  son's  calm  and 
haughty  bearing;  and  probably  would  have  been  glad 
had^Tom  replied  in  the  manner  he  sometimes  did. 

"  Do  you  stand  there  to  insult  me,  Sir?  You  may 
well  hold  your  peace;  for  what  could  you  say  to  your 
infamous  and  rebellious  conduct? '' 

"Do  you  mean  fastening  your  door,  Sir?"  asked 

Tom. 

"  Door,  door,  puppy  !  Look  ye,  their  hinges  shall 
rust  off  first,  ere  you  shall  open  them  again,  unless 
you  mend  your  life." 

"  Say  but  the  word,  Sir,  andyow  need  not  be  at  the 
trouble  of  fastening." 

"  You  're  a  cold-blooded,  thankless  wretch,"  stormed 
out  his  father.  "  You  were  born  to  be  a  curse,  in 
stead  of  a  blessing  to  me,  and  you  joy  in  it.  You 
lead  a  life  of  violence  and  riot,  and  will  live  and  die 
a  disgrace  to  your  family." 

"  I  will  do  something  to  give  it  a  name,"  said  Tom, 
"  if  I  hang  for  it.  I'll  not  lead  a  milksop  life  of  it, 
to  be  called  respectable  by  old  dames,  young  syco 
phants,  and  money-lenders." 

"  A  name,  indeed!     You  '11  go  marked  like  Cain, 


TOM    THORNTON".  163 

and  with  your  hand,  too,  against  every  man,  and  every 
man's  hand  against  you,  and  hang  you  will,  that's  pas't 
doubt,  unless  you  mend." 

"Better  that,  than  without  a  name.  And  be  a 
halter  my  destiny,"  said  he,  looking  down  upon  his 
manly  figure  with  some  complacency;  "  I  shall  be 
come  a  cart  as  well  as  another  man." 

"  Fop  !"  snapped  out  his  father,  enraged  at  Tom's 
contemptuous,  cool  trifling. 

"  1 3m  no  fop.  If  I  'm  a  well  made  fellow,  I  thank 
God  for  it;  and  where  's  the  harm  of  that?  " 

".Do  you  repeat  my  words,  Sir,  and  trifle  with 
your  Maker,  in  my  presence,  and  set  all  laws,  divine 
and  human,  at  defiance  ?  Is  't  not  enough  to  break  and 
destroy  what 's  mine,  and  keep  all  at  home  in  an  up 
roar,  but  you  must  go  abroad  to  disgrace  me,  and 
make  yourself  the  hate  and  dread  of  every  body,  by 
your  violence  and  rebellion?  But  you  shall  be  hum 
bled,  and  that  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world.  We  '11 
have  that  proud  spirit  of  yours  down,  before  it  rides 
over  any  more  necks.  Yes,  my  lad,  it  is  all  settled. 
The  whole  school,  with  you  at  their  head,  (for  you 
shall  be  their  leader  in  this,  as  you  have  been  in  ev 
ery  thing  else,)  shall  to-morrow  morning  down  on  their 
knees  before  their  master,  and  ask  his  pardon.5' 

"  I !  on  my  knees  to  that  shadow  of  a  man  !  No,  in 
faith,  I  'd  stand  as  straight  and  stiff  before  him  as  a 
drill-sergeant,  till  my  legs  failed,  ere  I  'd  nod  my 
head  to  him.  What !  he  that  would  whip  all  faith 
and  honour  out  of  a  boy,  till  he  left  a  soul  in  him  no 
bigger  than  his  own  !  I  '11  bow  to  none  but  to  Him 

that  made  me,  so  help " 

"  Hold,  hold,  said  the  father,  (whose  passions  were 
now  at  their  utmost,)  have  a  care  before  you  take  an 


164  TOM    THORNTON. 

oath  on 't ;  for,  as  I  live,  you  're  no  longer  son  of  mine, 
unless  you  do  it." 

"Then  I'm  my  own  master,  and  the  ground  I 
stand  on  is  my  own;  for,  by  my  right  hand,  I  '11  ask 
forgiveness  of  no  man  living,"  said  Tom,  turning  res 
olutely  away  from  his  father,  as  if  all  was  ended. 

"  Mad  boy!"  called  out  his  father,  "  hear  me  now 
for  the  last  time;  for  unless  you  this  instant  promise 
to  obey,  I  '11  never  set  eyes  on  you  more ;  —  and  leave 
this  house  you  shall  by  to-morrow's  light." 

"  Tis  a  bright  night,"  said  Tom,  looking  compos 
edly  out  of  the  window,  "  and  the  stars  will  serve  as 
well.  Nor  will  I  eat  or  sleep  where  I  am  not  wel 
come,"  he  added,  taking  up  his  hat  and  walking  de 
liberately  out  of  the  room. 

His  determined  manner  at  once  satisfied  Mr.  Thorn 
ton  that  Tom  would  act  up  to  what  he  had  said;  and 
a  father's  feelings  for  the  moment  took  possession  of 
him,  with  compunction  for  the  violence  which  had 
driven  his  son  from  him.  He  went  toward  the  door 
to  call  Tom  back,  but  he  was  already  out  of  hearing. 
"  Wilful  and  headstrong  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  turn 
ing  back  and  shutting  the  door,  with  a  feeling  of  disap 
pointment,  "  time  and  suffering  alone  must  cure  you." 
Thus  for  the  moment  he  eased  his  conscience,  and 
was  saved  the  sacrifice  of  his  pride. 

Tom  was  passing  through  the  entry  with  a  hasty 
step,  and  had  .nearly  reached  the  outer  door,  when  the 
lio-ht  caught  his  eye,  as  it  shone  from  under  the  par 
lour  door.  The  sight  recalled  him  to  himself  in  an 
instant,  and  stirred  every  home  feeling  within  him. 
He  heard  his  mother's  voice  as  she  was  reading  aloud. 
The  blood  throbbed  to  his  very  throat.  The  thought 
that  she  should  be  so  tranquil,  and  so  unconscious  of 


TOM    THORNTON.  165 

the  affliction  that  was  ready  to  break  upon  her,  cut 
him  to  the  heart.  If  she  had  been  a  victim  which  he 
was  about  to  sacrifice,  he  could  not  have  felt  more 
pain.  He  listened  a  moment.  "  I  must  not  go  with 
out  seeing  her,  without  taking  her  blessing  with  me,  — 
else  I  shall  go  accurst ! "  He  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
latch  and  raised  it  a  little:  —  his  mother  still  read  on. 
With  all  his  violence  and  rudeness,  Tom  had  a 
strong  affection  for  his  mother.  His  feelings,  too, 
were  now  softened;  for  he  was  humbled  and  pained 
at  reflecting  upon  the  unjust  violence  of  a  father,  who, 
though  of  a  stern  and  hasty  temper,  he  had  heretofore 
respected.  To  a  mind  not  wholly  depraved,  the  faults 
of  .a  parent  are  almost  as  mortifying  and  wounding  as 
its  own;  and  Tom  would  have  given  the  world,  if  the 
wrong  had  now  been  in  himself  alone.  —  "  I  dare  not 
trust  myself  to  see  my  mother  now.  She  would  make 
a  very  child  of  me;  my  father  would  be  sued  too,  and 
then  what  would  become  of  all  my  resolutions  and 
decision  !"  "  Pshaw!  "  said  he,  dashing  away  a  tear 
with  one  hand,  as  the  other  dropped  from  the  latch; 
li  is  this  the  way  for  one  like  me  to  begin  the  world?  " 
He  walked  slowly  out  of  the  house,  drew  the  door  to 
gently  after  him,  and  passed  down  the  yard,  uncon 
scious  that  he  was  moving  forward,  till  he  reached  the 
gate.  He  opened  it  mechanically,  then  leaning  over 
it,  looked  toward  his  home.  "'Tis  an  ill  parting 
with  you,  this,"  said  he;  "yet  I  leave  you  not  in 
anger.  Many  a  blessing  I  have  had,  and  many  a 
happy  time  of  it,  and  many  more  there  might  have 
been  for  me,  had  I  not  been  a  froward  child.  There 
are  few  such  to  come,  I  fear.  He  stood  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  house,  while  his  mind  wandered  over  the 
past,  and  what  awaited  him.  The  light  flashed  out 


166  TOM    THORNTON. 

cheerfully  upon  the  trees  near  the  window,  and  their 
leaves  twinkled  brightly  in  it.  He  cast  his  eyes  round ; 
but  the  earth  looked  gloomy  in  the  darkness,  for  no 
lights  were  to  be  seen  but  those  of  the  distant  stars. 
"  I  said  that  ye  would  serve  me,"  said  he,  looking 
upward,  "  and  if  I  spoke  in  anger,  Heaven  forgive 
me  for  it.  I  must  be  on  my  way,  and  must  go  like  a 
man." 

In  the  midst  of  the  most  violent  passions,  it  is  curi 
ous  to  see  how  quickly  and  with  what  care  the  mind 
will  sometimes  lay  its  plans  for  future  resources. 
Tom  Thornton,  when  much  younger  than  at  this 
time,  had  been  made  a  pet,  that  he  might  be  used  as 
an  instrument,  by  a  lad  a  little  older  than  himself,  of 
the  name  of  Isaac  Beckford.  Isaac  plotted  most  of 
the  mischief  done  at  school,  and  applauded  Tom  for 
his  sagacity  and  intrepidity  in  the  execution  of  it, 
taking  care  not  to  demand  any  praise  for  his  own  in 
genious  contrivances.  In  this  way  they  became 
necessary  to  each  other;  and  after  Isaac  left  school  to 
reside  in  the  city  with  an  uncle,  of  the  same  name, 
whose  ward  he  was,  he  wrote  frequently  to  Tom, 
urging  him  to  come  to  town,  and  share  in  the  amuse 
ments  in  which  a  large  fortune  would  soon  enable 
Isaac  to  indulge.  Tom  now  resolved  to  make  his 
way  to  the  city  and  have  the  benefit  of  his  friend's 
influence  to  put  himself  in  a  situation  to  rise  in  the 
world. 

Having  made  up  his  mind,  though  it  was  somewhat 
of  a  journey  on  foot  to  the  city,  and  he  wholly  igno 
rant  of  the  way,  (the  village  in  which  he  resided  lying 
far  off  from  any  great  road,)  Tom  marched  forward 
as  confidently  as  if  the  church  spires  of  the  town  had 
been  in  sight.  The  character  of  adventure,  freedom 


TOM    THORNTOX.  167 

and  novelty  in  his  condition,  the  sharp,  clear  night 
air,  and  the  crowd  and  glitter  of  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
gave  an  expanse  and  a  vivid  action  to  his  mind,  and 
roused  up  the  hopeful  spirit  which  for  a  time  had  slept 
within  him.  "  Come,  come,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"you're  a  tall  boy,  Tom,  better  fitted  to  shoulder 
your  way  through  the  world,  than  delve  Greek  under 
a  starveling  pedant." 

So  intent  was  he  upon  his  schemes,  that  he  took 
little  heed  to  the  by-road  he  was  travelling,  and  had 
walked  till  about  midnight  without  being  conscious  of 
time  or  fatigue.  The  perfect  stillness  about  him  at 
last  drew  his  attention,  and  looking  round,  he  found 
himself  on  the  top  of  a  small  hill,  in  the  midst  of  a 
country  barren,  broken  into  knolls,  and  covered,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  with  large,  loose  stones. 
An  old  tree,  at  a  distance,  was  all  that  showed  life  had 
ever  been  here;  and  that,  with  its  sharp,  scraggy, 
and  barkless,  gray  branches  shooting  out  uncouthly 

towards  the  sky,  looked  like  a  thing  accursed. "A 

hard  and  lonely  life  you  must  have  had  of  it  here," 
said  Tom,  "and  been  sadly  off  for  music,  if  you 
were  at  all  particular  about  it;  for  I  doubt  whether 
any  sound  has  been  heard  for  a  long  time  in  your 
branches,  but  that  of  the  ravens  and  the  heavy  winds. 
It  is  as  deadly  still  all  around  here,  as  the  sky ;  I  wish 
I  could  say  it  looked  as  well.  —  What  a  pity  that  gib 
bets  are  out  of  fashion,  for  this  would  be  a  choice 
place  for  them;  and  could  I  but  hear  the  creaking  of 
one,  I  should  not  have  my  ears  so  palsied  with  this 
dreadful,  intense  silence.  —  There  winds  a  yellow 
cart-track  from  hill  to  hill,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  It  is 

to  the  left,  and  omens  ill.     I  '11  take  this,  to  the  right 

whether  to  the  world's  end  or  not,  time  will  tell." 


168  TOM    THORNTON. 


And  forward  he  \vent.     He  at  last  grew  weary; 
and   as  his  pace   slackened,  he  began  to  think  of  his 
home,  his  father  and  mother,  and  his  many  offences. 
His  conscience  was  touched,   and  he  felt  as  if  unde 
serving  the  light  of  the  quiet  heavens  that  shone  on 
him. — "Can  one   prosper,  as  he    goes,   when    his 
father's  anger   and  mother's  grief  follow  him?' 
His  heart  began  to  fail,    and   a  thought    passed  him 
of  finding  his  way  back  again.  —  "What,   and  have 
my  father  taunt    me,  and  call  me    a  lad  of  metal? 
And  how  like   a  whipped  dog  I  should  look,   crawl 
ing  up  the  yard !  And  then  that  forked  master,  and 
his  pardon!  "  cried  Tom,  clinching  his  fists  till  the 
nails  nearly  brought  blood,  and   muttering   a  curse 
between  his  teeth,   as  the  tears  started  to  his  eyes, 
part  in  grief,   and   part  in  unsated  rage.  —  "Would 
that  I  had  you  in  my  grapple  once  more,  you  soulless 
wretch,  and  you  should  never  make  mischief  between 
men  again,  —  you  mere  thing!  —  What,   return  to  all 
that!     No,  in  faith,  I  'd  sooner  be  thrown  out  here  like 
a  dead  beast,  and  lie  till  the  bones  in  this  body  were 
as  bare  and  white  as  these  stones,  ere  I  'd  go  back 
so." 

He  travelled  on,  with  a  loose,  irregular  step.  Sus 
taining  and  hopeful  feelings  had  left  him,  and  melan 
choly  and  self-accusing  thoughts  were  passing  in  his 
soul;  yet  his  mind  was  made  up,  and  supported  by  a 
kind  of  dogged  obstinacy.  —  "  There  will  be  no  end 
to  this  track,  as  I  see.  It  winds  round  and  over  these 
hundred  hills,  as  if  it  were  delighted  at  getting  into 
so  pleasant  a  country."  He  continued  his  route.— 
"  Must  my  voice  lose  itself  for  ever  in  the  solitude  of 
this  stillness  ?  Is  there  a  doom  of  eternal  silence  on 
all  things,  where  I  go?  Will  nothing  speak  to  me  ?  " 


TOM    THORNTON.  169 

He  presently  heard  alow,  rumbling  sound,  as  if  in 
the  earth  under  his  feet.  He  started,  but  recovering 
himself,  walked  on.  It  increased  to  a  surly  growl, 
and  seemed  to  spread  underneath  the  hills  and  through 
the  hollows;  and  the  earth  jarred. —  "Does  nature 
make  experiments  with  her  earthquakes  in  this  out- 
of-the-way  place,  before  she  overturns  cities  with 
them?  "  said  he,  with  a  bitter  scoff}  feeling  how  little 
he  cared  at  the  moment  for  what  might  happen  to 
him.  As  he  came  round  a  hill,  the  sound  opened  dis 
tinctly  upon  him,  sending  up  its  roar  into  the  air;  and 
raising  his  eyes,  he  saw  at  a  distance  a  tall,  giant  pile, 
looking  black  against  the  sky. —  "  So,  my  earthquake 
turns  out  to  be  nothing  but  a  waterfall.  And  why 
cannot  I  be  fooled  again,  and  be  made  to  believe  that 
clumsy  factory,  to  be  the  huge  castle  of  some  big,  hairy 
manslayer  and  violator  of  damsels?  What !  shall  I  be 
down-hearted  now  in  my  need!  —  I  who  have  carried 
a  confident  brow  and  a  firm  breast  against  whatever 
opposed  me  !  It  must  be  that  I  need  food,  else  how 
could  I  be  so  melancholy  ?  I  '11  have  that  and  sleep 
too  before  long,  and  a  fresh  body  and  bright  morn 
ing  to  start  with  to-morrow." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  way  toward  the  building. 
The  path  led  him  to  the  stream,  just  above  the  fall. 
It  lay  still  and  glassy  to  the  very  edge  of  the  preci 
pice,  down  which  it  flung  itself,  roaring  and  foaming. 
The  trees  and  bushes  hung  lightly  over  it,  and  the 
stars  looked  as  thick  in  its  depths,  as  in  the  sky  above 
him.  He  was  about  resting  himself  upon  a  stone; 
but  turning,  he  saw  it  was  a  grave-stone.  —  "  It  is  a 
holy  thing,"  said  he,  "and  I  will  rest  myself  else 
where."  —  He  looked  round,  — there  was  not  another 
gravo  in  sight.  —  "What,  all  aloue?  No 


170  TOM    THORXTOX. 

ions  in  death?  Though  we  hold  not  communion  with 
each  other  in  the  grave,  yet  there  is  something  awful 
in  the  thought  of  being  laid  in  the  ground  away  from 
the  dwellings  of  all  the  living,  and  not  even  the  deac 
by  our  side.  But  thou  hast  chosen  thy  habitation 
well,  for  this  stream  shall  sing  a  holier  and  longer 
dirge  by  thee,  than  ever  went  up  from  man;  yet  this 
shall  one  day  be  still,  and  its  waters  dried  up;  but 
the  spirit  that  was  in  thee  shall  live  with  God." 

He  passed  along  the  race-way.  The  water  had 
left  it ;  and  the  grass  was  growing  here  and  there  in  little 
clumps  in  its  gravelly  bottom.  Its  planks  and  timbers, 
forced  up,  forked  out  like  a  wreck,  and  the  huge 
wheel,  which  had  parted  from  its  axle,  lay  broken 
and  aslant  the  chasm.  He  looked  toward  the  build 
ing.  The  moon,  which  was  just  rising  behind  it,  and 
shining  through  its  windows,  made  it  appear  like  some 
monster  with  a  thousand  eyes.  Its  door-path  had 
grown  up,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  wind  pass 
ing  through  its  empty  length,  and  here  and  there  the 
flapping  of  a  window.  He  went  round  it,  and  saw 
at  a  little  distance,  four  or  five  long,  low  buildings 
standing  without  order,  upon  little  hillocks,  without 
fence  or  tree,  or  any  thing  near  them  but  short  with 
ered  grass.  —  "  One  would  have  thought,"  said  Tom, 
"  that  nature  had  done  enough  without  art's  coming 
in  to  help  the  desolation.  Not  a  light  hereabouts ! 
This  seems  not  much  like  either  bed  or  supper."  Go 
ing  forward,  he  looked  in  at  one  house,  then  at  another, 
but  nothing  was  to  be  seen  except  bare  plastered  walls. 
At  last,  from  one  of  the  houses  he  spied  a  light  gleam 
ing  through  a  crevice.  The  sight  warmed  his  heart. 
He  went  to  the  door,  and  knocked. 

"  Who's  there?  "  asked  one,  in  a  female  voice. 

"A  friend." 


TOM   THORNTON.  171 

"More  foes  than  friends  abroad  at  this  hour, 
belike,"  replied  the  person  within. 

"  I  've  lost  my  way,"  said  Tom.  "  No  harm  shall 
come  to  you,  good  woman,  by  letting  in  a  traveller." 

"You  promise  well  and  in  an  honest  voice,"  said 
she,  as  she  opened  the  door.  The  light  shone  upon 
her,  and  Tom  saw  before  him  a  tall,  masculine  wo 
man,  with  strong  features,  but  with  a  serious  and  sub 
dued  cast  of  countenance. 

"  Who  are  you,  young  man?  Out  on  no  good  in 
tent,  I  fear,  at  this  time  o 'night." 

"I'm  Thornton  of  Thorntonville,"  said  Tom,  with 
his  usual  readiness,  "an  you've  ever  heard  of  the 
place.  I  was  going  to  the  city  a-foot  for  once,  and 
have  missed  my  way." 

"  Thornton  of  Thorntonville?"  said  the  old  woman, 
seeming  to  recollect  herself;  "I  have  seen  your 
father,  then,  down  at  the  big  house  yonder.  Come 
in." 

"  Your  fire  is  comforting,"  said  Tom,  sitting  down 
by  it;  "and  it  is  the  first  comfortable  thing  I  have 
met  with  for  many  long  hours  past.  But  you  have 
made  an  odd  choice  of  situations,  my  good  woman." 

"The  poor  have  not  often  their  choice,"  said  she. 
"  And  there  are  things  sometimes  which  make  the 
bare  heath  dearer  to  us  than  garden  or  park." 

"  They  are  sad  things  then,"  said  Tom. 

"  Sad  indeed,"  said  the  old  woman,  looking  into 
the  fire.  She  sat  silent  a  little  lime;  then  breathing 
forth  a  low  sigh  that  seemed  to  relieve  the  bosom  of 
its  aching,  she  said  to  Tom,  "You  must  be  over 
weary,  and  hungry  too,  if  you  are  from  Thorntonville 
to-day,  for  it  is  a  long  walk;  and  you  m»°*  ^ave  come 
over  the  heath;  and  one  may  stand  there  as  at  sea,  ^ 


172  TOM    THORNTON. 

hill  after  hill,  like  so  many  waves,  and  not  a  living 
thing  on  one  of  them  all,  till  they  run  into  the  very 
sky.  Wide  as  it  is,  it  would  hardly  find  summer  feed 
for  my  old  Jenny,  were  it  not  for  the  circle  of  grass 
that  trims  round  a  gray  stone  here  and  there." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  be  said  for  its  appearance," 
replied  Tom.  "I  am  not  a  little  tired,  too;  and 
though  I  cannot  well  tell  how  far  I  have  walked, 
there  was  hardly  a  streaked  cloud  in  the  west  when  I 
left  home." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  quick  foot  and  a  light  heart 
that  brought  you  so  long  a  way  in  so  short  a  time," 
said  she,  as  she  was  getting  ready  a  bowl  of  bread 
and  milk.  "The  young  hurry  on,  as  if  life  would 
ne'er  run  out;  yet  many  fall  by  the  way;  and  I  have 
lived  to  lay  those  in  the  ground,  whom  I  looked  to 
have  had  one  day  put  the  sod  over  this  gray  head." 

Tom's  thoughts  had  gone  home,  but  the  old  wo 
man's  last  words  were  sounding  in  his  ears.  "And 
who  will  do  that  last  office  for  me,  or  for  them?" 
thought  he.  She  saw  the  gloom  over  Tom's  face; 
and  believing  she  had  caused  it  —  "Nevermind," 
she  said,  "the  complainings  of  one  whose  troubles 
are  nigh  over.  Here!"  giving  Tom  the  bowl. — 
"  You  have  but  one  dish  to  supper,  yet  that  good  of 
its  kind;  for  'tis  short  feed  that  makes  the  richest 
milk." 

"  Whose  is  that  huge  building  to  the  left,  that 
creaks  like  a  tavern  sign?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  It  was  his  who  would  have  made  money  out  of 
moonshine.  But  he  has  gone  before  his  works." 

"  He  was  not  buried  yonder,  to  be  mocked  by  them, 
I  trust." 

"  u,  no/7  ansvyczca  tue  old  woman.   "She  that  I 


TOM    THORNTON.  173 

laid  there,    had  no  schemes  of  grandeur;  for  Sally 
Wentworth  was  of  a  meek  and  simple  heart." 

"  Forgive  me,  my  good  woman,  I  should  not  have 
spoken  of  this,  had  I  known  how  near  to  your  heart 
it  was  to  you." 

"  You  have  no  forgiveness  to  ask  of  me.  I  am  a 
lone  woman,  and  there  seldom  passes  here  one  who 
cares  to  be  troubled  with  my  griefs;  and  it  is  moisture 
to  this  dried  heart  to  talk  to  one  who  can  feel  for  my 
afflictions;  for  Sally  was  not  only  my  child,  but  God 
has  seldom  blessed  a  mother  with  such  a  child.  When 
he  took  from  me  my  husband,  I  hope  I  did  not  forget 
his  goodness  in  what  he  left  to  me;  yet  he  saw  fit  to 
call  her  too,  and  his  will  be  done .  If  grief  had  not 
killed  her,  I  could  bear  my  lot  better.  But  how 
could  it  be  other  than  it  was,  seeing  that  he  whom  she 
loved  was  so  cruelly  taken  from  her?" 

"  She  died  of  love,  then  ? "  said  Tom.  "  It  is  a  death 
seldom  met  with,  and  bespeaks  a  rare  mind." 

"I  know  it,"  replied  the  mother.  "True  love  is  a 
peculiar  and  a  holy  thing;  yet  those  are  said  to  love, 
who  can  lay  one  in  the  ground,  and  look  fondly  on 
another.  O,  I  have  seen  it,  and  it  has  made  me 
shudder  when  I  have  thought  of  those  in  the  grave. 
Yes,  and  many  too  would  scoff  at  them  that  were  true 
to  the  dead;  yet  they  would  not,  were  it  given  them 
to  know  that  the  grief  of  such  had  that  in  it  which  was 
dearer  and  better  than  all  their  joy.  My  Sally  knew 
it,  and  it  has  made  her  a  spirit  in  heaven.  I  sit  and 
think  over  all  that  happened,  but  there  is  not  a  soul 
on  earth  to  whom  I  can  tell  it." 

"  If  you  could  think  me  worthy  of  it,  I  would  ask 
you  to  tell  me  her  story." 

"'Tis  a  sad  one,  but  will  not  hold  you  long,  for 
Sally's  life  was  a  short  and  simple  one. 


174  TOM    THORNTON. 

"She  was  to  have  been  married  to  an  industrious 
and  kind-hearted  lad.  They  knew  each  other  when 
quite  children;  and  grew  more  and  more  into  a 
love  for  each  other  as  they  grew  in  years.  And 
if  their  attachment  did  not  show  the  breaks  and 
passions  of  those  which  happen  later,  it  was,  I 
think,  deeper  seated  in  its  quiet,  and  seemed  to 
be  a  part  of  the  existence  of  both  of  them.  Could 
you  have  seen  them,  as  I  have,  sitting  on  that  very 
form,  where  you  now  sit,  so  gentle  and  happy  in 
each  other,  you  would  not  wonder  that  it  wrings 
my  heart,  now  they  are  both  gone.  But  there  was 
a  snake  crawling  and  shining  in  the  grass.  His 
eye  fell  before  the  pure  eye  of  Sally,  yet  he  could  not 
give  over.  I  dare  not  speak  his  name,  lest  I  should 
curse  him;  and  Sally  forgave  him,  and  prayed  for  his 
soul  on  her  death-bed.  The  Evil  one  was  busy  in  his 
heart,  and  thwarted  and  enraged,  and  with  his  passions 
wrought  up,  he  attempted  that  by  force,  which  he  did 
not  dare  speak  out  to  her.  Though  she  was  of  a  gen 
tle  make,  there  was  no  want  of  spirit  in  her,  and  the 
wretch  liked  to  have  fallen  by  her  hand.  '  Thank 
God,'  she  has  said  to  me,  ( that  I  did  not  take  his 
life.' 

"  She  came  home,  shaking  and  pale  with  what  had 
happened,  and  frightened  at  the  danger  she  had 
escaped.  Frank  met  her  at  the  door,  and  asked  her 
eagerly  what  was  the  matter;  she  hinted,  hastily, 
enough  for  him  to  guess  the  rest.  He  sprang  from 
the  door,  with  an  oath — the  first  I  ever  heard  him 
utter.  —  She  called  loudly  after  him,  but  he  was  out 
of  sight  in  an  instant.  She  looked  the  way  he  had 
gone,  almost  breathless.  '  I  spared  him,'  said  she, 
at  last,  '  but  he  may  not  —  he  may  not.'  It  was  but 


TOM    THORNTON.  175 

a  little  while  before  Frank  came  home.  He  stag 
gered  into  the  house,  and  fell  back  into  a  chair. 
'  What  have  you  done  ?  Speak,  tell  me  what  you 
have  done,'  cried  Sally.  '  You  have  not,  you  have 
not  murdered  '  —  Frank  grasped  his  throat,  to  stop  its 
beating.  '  No,  No/  said  he,  scarcely  to  be  heard. 
*  I  struck  him  but  once,  and  he  lay  like  a  dead  man 
before  me;  and  I  thought  it  was  all  over  with  him; 
but  he  presently  opened  his  eyes  upon  me,  and  I 
dared  not  stay,  for  I  felt  the  spirit  of  a  murderer  at 
my  heart ! ' —  He  looked  at  the  moment,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "  as  if  dropping  the  very  knife  from  his  hand. 
<£  And  here,"  said  she,  "  the  storm  began  to  gather 
fast  and  hard.  The  coward  villain  found  means  to 
raise  suspicions  against  Frank,  which  threw  him  out 
of  his  employments.  Yet  so  secret  was  he,  as  not  to 
be  suspected  of  the  deed.  The  poor  fellow  wander 
ed  over  these  bare  hills  day  after  day,  without  know 
ing  what  to  turn  his  hands  to.  In  the  midst  of  all 
this  trouble  the  wretch  came  to  him,  and  begged  for 
giveness  for  his  conduct  to  Sally.  '  I  can  forgive  you,' 
said  Frank,  '  but  I  do  not  like  looking  upon  you.' 
'  That  is  not  forgiveness,'  said  he,  in  a  beseeching 
tone.  '  I  was  a  villain,  for  I  would  have  done  you 
an  injury  past  remedy.  And  it  was  more  than  I  de 
served,  that  you  should  have  spared  my  life  when  I 
was  down.  I  have  not  had  a  quiet  rest  since  that 
time,  and  never  shall,  if  you  do  not  suffer  me  to  do 
something  to  make  amends.'  *  The  best  amends,' 
said  Frank,  '  will  be  a  better  life  in  you.'  c  I  know  it,' 
he  answered,  '  and  I  hope  it  will  be  so,  if  remorse  can 
give  it.  But  you,  too,  must  give  me  ease.  Though 
young,  my  allowance  is  large.  Some  evil  mind  has 
worked  you  mischief,  I  am  told,  and  you  are  poor.  I 


176  TOM    THORNTON. 

do  not  ask  you  to  take  my  money  as  your  own  —  I 
have  no  right  to.  But  do  at  least  show  me  that  you 
have  so  far  forgiven  me,  as  to  suffer  me  to  lend  it  to 
you,  and  see  you  well  established  in  your  trade.  It 
is  the  only  atonement  left  me;  and  you  will  not  cut 
me  off  from  that?'  Frank  refused,  and  the  villain 
begged  like  a  slave.  Frank  began  to  think  it  was 
sinful  pride,  and  he  thought  of  Sally,  and  then  he  con 
sented..  The  money  was  lent,  and  as  soon  as  Frank 
had  laid'it  out  in  stock  for  trade,  the  note  was  put  in 
suit,  and  he  was  stripped  of  all  he  had,  and  thrown  into 
gaol.  Frank  found  a  friend  who  released  him;  and 
he  went  to  sea.  And  think,"  said  she,  turning  to 
Tom,  "  he  that  contrived  it  all,  was  scarcely  older  than 
you  are  now;  and  yet  he  wears  a  gay  heart  and  fair 
outside. 

"  I  need  not  tell  of  the  parting.  It  was  a  bitter 
one,  and  no  meeting  after  it.  There  was  a  storm  at 
sea,  and  the  ship  went  down.  And'  many  a  night 
have  I  lain  and  seen  the  body  heaved  up  wave  after 
wave,  as  they  took  it,  one  after  another,  till  they  bore 
it  away,  far,  far  out  of  sight.  The  news  came  at  last; 
yet  she  shed  no  tear,  nor  spoke  a  word;  but  her -si 
lence  was  awful  —  it  was  like  a  spirit  near  me.  For 
many  days  she  sat  in  that  corner  with  her  hands  clasp 
ed  and  resting  on  her  knees,  looking  with  a  glazed 
eye  upon  the  fire;  and  I  could  see  her  pining  away 
before  me  as  she  sat  there.  At  last  she  would  leave 
the  house  at  night-fall,  when  it  was  chilly  autumn, 
and  when  the  crisped,  frozen  grass  would  crumble 
under  her  feet.  And  I  have  found  her  standing  on 
the  top  of  a  hill  near,  many  and  many  a  night,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moon,  her  lips  moving  and  giving 
a  low  sound,  of  what,  I  could  not  tell.  Nor  would  she 


TOM   THORNTON.  177 

look  at  me,  nor  mind  that  I  was  by.  And  I  have  led  her 
home,  and  laid  her  shivering  in  her  bed,  and  she 
would  take  no  heed  of  me.  At  last  the  cold  winds  and 
the  snow  struck  her.  But  as  she  lay  there  on  the 
bed,  her  mind  opened: — it  did  not  wander  any  more. 
She  said  that  but  one  being  had  done  her  wrong,  and 
though  it  was  an  awful  wrong,  she  was  sure  that  she 
forgave  him,  and  would  pray  that  he  might  be  forgiven. 
"  Just  before  she  died,  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  me,  —  she  saw  me  look  at  it.  '  It  was  a  fresh  hand 
once,  but  is  dead  and  shrunken  now;  and  there  are 
the  blue  veins,'  said  she,  tracing  them  with  one  of  her 
fingers, '  where  the  blood  used  to  flow  warm  and  quick ; 
but  they  are  dried  up,  though  they  stand  out  so.  I 
am  going  to  peace,  mother,  and  to  him  that  loved  me.' 
The  tears  fell  on  her  pillow,  as  she  said,  '  But  who 
will  take  care  of  you  now  in  your  old  age? '  Then 
looking  upward,  with  a  bright  smile  over  her  face, 
and  without  turning  toward  me,  —  '  God,  my  mother' 
God  will  take  care  of  you.'  I  felt  it  like  a  revelation 
from  heaven. 

"  She  died,  and  I  laid  her  where  she  wished  to  be 
laid,  in  that  grave  you  saw  by  the  stream,  —  for  you 
spoke  of  one,  did  you  not?  I  bring  water  from  that 
stream  morning  and  night;  and  when  the  weather  is 
calm,  I  stop  and  pray  at  her  grave,  and  in  the  driving 
storm  I  utter  my  prayer  in  the  spirit,  as  I  pass  by;  — 
and  with  God  it  is  the  same,  if  it  comes  from  a  sincere 
heart.— My  story  is  done."  "It  is  late,  and  you 
have  walked  far,  and  there  is  a  clean  bed  for  you, 
though  a  hard  one,  in  the  next  room."  Tom  wished 
her  good  night;  but  she  did  not  answer  him:  he 
saw  that  she  could  not.  "  O,  Isaac  Beckford,"  mur 
mured  she,  as  Tom  shut  the  door,  "there  is  a  heavy 
12 


178  TOM   THORNTON. 

sin  on  your  soul;  may  there  be  mercy  in  heaven  for 
you."  Tom  did  not  hear  the  name,  nor  suspect  his 
friend. 

Though  he  rose  early,  he  found  breakfast  ready. 
The  hostess  looked  cheerful,  for  every  affliction  has 
its  comfort  to  the  Christian.  —  "And  now,"  said  he, 
shoving  back  his  chair  from  the  table,  "  how  am  I  to 
find  my  way  to  the  city? " 

"  Look,"  said  the  old  woman,  going  to  the  door, 
"  yonder  you  see  the  wood  which  borders  this  heath; 
and  there  are  the  chimnies  of  Beckford  mansion,  and 
the  great  road  winds  near  it.  You  will  see  no  smoke 
there,  though  a  clear  morning.  —  It  is  an  empty  house 
now.  The  heath  brought  you  a  short  route,  for  it  is 
only  a  dozen  miles  or  so  to  town.  Nigh  enough,  I 
fear,  to  such  a  place,  for  one  who  has  passions  like 
yours." 

"What  know  you  of  my  passions,  good  woman? 
What  have  you  heard  of  me?  " 

"  Naught  in  the  world.  But  do  I  not  see  them  in 
the  moving  of  your  lip,  and  the  gleam  of  that  eye? 
Rein  them  with  a  steady  hand,  or  they  may  prove  of 
too  hot  metal  for  you. "  Tom  thanked  her,  .and  then 
offered  her  money.  "You  came  as  a  cast-away," 
said  she,  "and  I  cannot  take  it."  He  tendered  it 
again.  "No,  no,  I  can  never  take  fare-money  of 
one  who  has  listened  to  my  story."  Tom  urged  her 
no  further,  but  wishing  her,  kindly,  good  morning,  set 
out  on  his  way.  As  he  drew  near  the  city,  the  roads 
became  crowded,  and  his  spirits  rose.  "What  a 
mighty  stir  is  here  —  and  what  a  medley !  Things  of 
all  sorts,  from  horse-cart  and  check  frock,  to  coach 
and  laces!  And  who  is  merriest  of  the  crowd,  it 
would  be  hard  to  tell.  At  last  came  the  hubbub  and 


TOM   THORNTON.  179 

rattle  of  the  town.     "  One  needs  a  speaking  trumpet, 
to  be  heard  here,"  thought  Tom. 

By  dint  of  inquiry,  a  quick  eye  and  ready  mind,  he 
at  last  found  the  street,  and  the  number  of  the  house 
of  Beckford's  guardian.  The  servant  made  Tom's 
arrival  known  to  Isaac.  "  What,  my  young  protege!" 
exclaimed  Isaac  to  himself — "And  in  good  time; 
for  soon  I  shall  be  a  free  man,  and  he  must  minister 
to  my  pleasure,  as  must  every  one  whom  I  favour. 
I  must  see  that  he  is  brought  up  in  the  way  he  should 

go" 

With  a  deliberate  step  and  plotting  mind,  he  walked 
down  stairs;  but  rushing  swiftly  into  the  room,  and 
running  to  Tom,  seized  him  round  the  shoulders,  with 
a  hearty,  God  bless  you,  and  how  are  you,  my  old 
buck.  This  welcome  was  a  cordial  to  Torn's  heart; 
for,  with  all  his  high  spirits,  the  manner  of  his  leav 
ing  home,  and  what  he  had  passed  through  since,  had 
depressed  him  and  made  him  thoughtful;  and  he  was 
ill  at  ease  with  himself.  After  many  questions  about 
old  playmates,  and  jokes  upon  past  school  tricks, 
Tom  told  Isaac  that  he  wished  to  see  him  where 
they  should  not  be  interrupted. 

"  To  be  sure  you  shall,"  said  Isaac,  stepping  into 
a  side  room,  and  locking  the  door  after  them.  "  But 
what  is  all  this  for?  You  have  no  game  afoot  here 
already,  surely?  Or  has  some  hare  scaped  you?  If 
so,  't  is  I  must  start  her  again.  I  've  the  scent  of  a 
hound,  Tom/3 

"A  good  quality.  Not  wanted  now,  however. 
I  will  tell  you  what  it  is."  And  he  told  the  whole 
story. 

"  A  pretty  child  you,  to  quarrel  with  your  bread 


180  TOM   THORNTON. 

and  butter.  A  lad  of  metal  truly.  But  does  one 
show  his  spirit,  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  broken 
head?  You  must  put  yourself  under  my  care.  I  see 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  live  pleasantly  enough 
without  the  old  folks,  till  your  father  repents;  which 
I  warrant  you  will  be  shortly.  In  the  mean  time," 
said  Isaac,  scanning  Tom  as  he  spoke,"  "  there  must 
be  a  change  from  top  to  toe." 

"  I  have  no  money,"  said  Tom. 

"I  have,  though,"  said  Isaac;  "  so  give  yourself 
no  concern."  Tom  coloured.  He  had  not  thought 
of  this  before.  Isaac  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"Give  me  leave,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak.  "  Why,  you  look  as  you  did  when  caught  by 
your  master  stealing  his  rod.  There  is  no  other  way 
for  you  —  if  you  wo'nt  suffer  me  a  trifling  favour, 
you  must  bilk  the  tailor." 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  said  Tom;  "  I  would  be  under 
such  obligations  to  no  man  living  but  you.  And  I 
like  not  that  even.  Money  favours  are  but  poor  bonds 
of  friendship." 

"Pshaw,"  said  Isaac,  "your  father  will  pay  all; 
and  should  he  be  stiff  about  it,  if  I  credit  him,  and 
lose,  what 's  that  to  you  ?  So,  now  for  a  merry  year  or 
two  to  come." 

"  Not  so  fast,"  said  Tom;  "  I  want  your  assistance, 
but  in  another  way.  You  have  influential  friends. 
I  did  not  come  here  for  sport.  I  am  for  sea,  and  sea 
fights."  Isaac  gave  him  a  questioning  look.  "'Tis 
even  so,  I  'm  set  upon  it,  Isaac." 

"  Well  then,  so  be  it.  But  first,  come,  see  my 
guardian." 

Isaac  was  right  in  his  conjecture  about  Mr.  Thorn 
ton.  His  wife's  anxiety  concerning  the  fate  of  her 


TOM  THORNTON.  181 

son,  and  the  reflection  that  he  had  been  hasty  and 
unjust  towards  him,  led  the  old  gentleman  to  write  to 
Isaac's  uncle;  for  he  had  little  doubt  whither  Tom 
had  gone.  Mr.  Beckford  stated,  in  his  answer,  Tom's 
desire  to  go  into  the  navy;  and  it  was  concluded  that 
Tom  should  have  a  moderate  supply  of  money,  and 
be  furthered  in  his  intent,  without  knowing  any  thing 
of  his  father's  share  in  the  business.  Isaac  therefore 
appeared  as  principal,  and  he  took  care  to  increase 
his  influence  by  it;  but  he  could  not  turn  Tom  from 
his  purpose,  and  he  did  not  like  to  thwart  his  rich 
uncle. 

Thornton's  mind  was  so  full  of  ships  and  the  seas, 
of  fights  and  promotion,  that  Isaac  saw  it  was  impos 
sible  to  sink  him  in  dissipation  at  once.  "  Whatever 
is  that  lad's  object,"  said  Beckford,  "  is  a  passion  with 
him  for  the  time.  I  must  give  him  line." 

"  Are  you  going  to  run  me  through,  Tom?  " 

"  I  was  only  boarding  the  enemy." 

"  That  coat  is  of  the  true  cut,  Tom." 

"  It  sits  no  more  to  the  shape  of  a  man,  than  to  a 
partridge.  When  I  am  admiral,  Isaac,  —  as  I  shall 
be" 

"  God  save  you,  admiral  !  " 

"I'll  do." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"  Pay  you  the  tailor's  bill,  for  having  made  me  such 
a  thing  to  show  clothes  on.  Let 's  to  the  ship.  —  She 
sits  on  the  water,"  said  Tom,  as  they  were  carried 
towards  her,  "  as  if  she  were  born  of  the  sea.  And 
then  again  so  tall,  and  light,  and  graceful,  she  seems 
a  creature  of  the  air."  — 

A  few  days  before  sailing,  he  received  a  guarded 
letter  from  his  mother.  He  threw  it  angrily  upon  the 


182  TOM  THORNTON. 

table.  "  No,  no!  This  was  written  under  the  hard 
eye  of  my  father."  And  he  wrote  an  answer  full  of 
affection  and  high  hopes. 

As  Tom  had  always  resolved  to  command  a  ship  of 
war,  he  had  made  good  use  of  his  time  at  school  to  learn 
all  but  what  practice  gives.  With  a  quick  insight 
into  whatever  he  turned  his  attention  to,  his  many  and 
appropriate  inquiries  and  close  and  wide  observation 
soon  made  him  familiar  with  all  that  could  be  acquired 
in  port,  and  to  be  ready  for  much  that  the  sea  would 
teach  him. 

There  was  a  stiff  breeze  and  a  clear  blue  sky,  and 
the  air  was  radiant  with  the  sun,  when  he  bade  fare 
well  to  Isaac.  Tom's  brave,  fiery,  open  temper,  made 
young  Beckford's  sly,  cautious,  and  vicious  disposi 
tion  seem  despicable  and  weak  even  to  himself,  and 
he  was  fixed  upon  revenge.  He  was  one  of  that  race 
\vho  carry  a  hell  within  them  —  who,  belonging  to  the 
rank  of  ordinary  beings,  and  wanting  the  bold  and 
sustaining  spirit  of  open  hostility,  bear  secret  hate  to 
all  above  them. 

"  This  is  life,"  said  Tom,  as  he  stood  looking  out 
on  the  ocean.  "  The  unseen  winds  make  music  over 
head;  the  very  ship  rejoices  in  the  element  in  which 
she  moves;  and  the  sea  on  which  we  are  opening, 
looking  limitless  as  eternity,  heaves  as  if  there  were 
life  in  it." 

Tom  had  high  notions  of  a  ship's  discipline,  and 
submitted  with  a  good  grace.  "And  so  will  I 
be  obeyed,"  thought  he,  "  when  my  turn  comes." 
Though  among  his  fellow-officers  his  manner  was  too 
impetuous,  yet  there  was  something  so  hearty  and 
frank  in  it,  that  they  could  not  take  offence.  He 
exacted  perfect  obedience  where  he  commanded,  but 


TOM   THORNTON.  183 

was  free  from  cruelty.  He  was  continually  learning 
of  experienced  officers;  nor  did  he  suffer  the  slightest 
thing  which  could  be  of  use,  to  escape  his  observa 
tion.  He  visited  foreign  ports;  and  with  a  curiosity 
all  alive  and  perpetually  gratified,  this  earth  was  like 
a  new  world  to  him. 

At  last  came  the  news  of  a  war,  and  Tom  rubbed 
his  hands  like  an  epicure  over  a  smoking  dinner.  "A 
bloody  battle,  and  I  shall  mount,  —  or  fall,  and  another 
walk  over  me:  all  the  same  to  the  world."  At  last 
was  given  the  cry  of  '  A  sail;'  and  Tom  saw  a  ship 
ahead  rising  up,  as  it  were,  slowly  and  steadily  out  of 
the  sea,  as  she  neared.  As  she  tacked  to  the  wind, 
he  gazed  upon  her  almost  with  rapture.  —  "  Queen  of 
the  sea,  cried  he,  "  how  silently  and  beautifully  and 
stately  she  bears  herself  !  " 

"  A  heavy  ship,"  said  an  older  officer. 

"  She's  a  superb  bird  of  passage,"  answered  Tom, 
"fit  messenger  for  the  gods.  'T  is  a  pity;  but  we 
must  bring  her  down."  — A  distant  fire  was  opened. 
He  looked  disappointed  and  impatient  that  so  little 
was  done. 

"  You  will  be  gratified  to  your  heart's  content  pres 
ently,  young  man.  We  shall  have  no  boys'  play  to 
day." 

"  Nor  do  I  want  it.  Let  it  come  hot  and  heavy." 
And  his  eye  brightened  and  spirits  rose,  the  harder 
and  closer  the  fight. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  the  enemy's  mainmast  swayed 
once  or  twice,  then  came  a  crash  and  a  cry,  and  it 
went  by  the  board.  Tom  shuddered,  and  shut  his 
eyes  convulsively,  as  he  saw  the  poor  fellows  go  with 
it.  All  was  in  a  moment  forgotten,  when  the  ship  he 
was  in,  falling  on  the  other's  bow,  the  cry,  '  to  board,' 


184  TOM  THORNTON. 

was  heard.  He  jumped  upon  the  enemy's  deck  with 
the  spring  of  a  tiger.  They  gave  way.  He  was 
foremost  through  the  fight,  with  a  wet  brow  and 
clotted  hand.  In  a  few  minutes  the  deck  was  cleared 
of  all  but  the  dead  and  dying.  All  was  bustle  and 
joy  on  one  side;  and  Tom's  heart  swelled,  when  the 
captain  in  his  warmth  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand. 
But  no  one  envied  him,  so  meekly  did  he  bear  it.  He 
stepped  back  a  little.  A  dying  man  gave  his  last  groan 
at  his  feet.  Tom  started,  and  looking  down,  sa\v  the 
sightless,  open  eyes  of  the  dead  man  turned  up  toward 
him.  It  shrunk  his  very  heart  up.  "And  has  this 
been  my  sport?"  said  he.  "  God  forgive  me."  Tom 
went  home,  as  one  of  the  officers  of  the  prize,  with  a 
high  commendation  of  his  conduct. 

"  I  am  worn  with  this  incessant  heave  of  the  sea," 
said  he,  as  he  hung  over  the  ship's  side,  "  and  long 
to  be  ashore,  and  smell  the  earth  again,  and  mix  in 
the  occupations  of  men.  The  moon  shines  as  fair 
here,  and  looks  as  happy,  showing  her  dimpled  face 
in  the  water,  as  if  she  had  all  the  world  to  worship 
her.  The  sky  and  earth  hold  blessed  and  silent  com 
munion,  which  we,  who  crawl  about  here,  think  not 
of.  Would  I  could  share  in  it,  and  mingle  with  the 
air,  and  be  all  a  sensation  too  deep  for  sound  —  a 
traveller  among  the  stars,  and  filled  with  light.  I  am 
a  thing  of  clay — a  creature  of  sin,"  he  murmured, 
as  he  turned,  and  went  to  the  cabin. 

The  rim  of  the  sea  was  of  gold,  when  the  sun  was 
wheeled  slowly  up,  and  burnished  the  whole  ocean. 
The  light  flashed  up  into  the  cabin  windows.  Thorn 
ton's  soul  enlarged  itself  as  he  looked  out  upon  this 
life  of  the  world.  Going  upon  deck,  he  found  an 
officer  there, 

"  What,  up  before  me  ?J> 


TOM  THORNTON.  185 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  watching  the  harbour  light,  till 
it  went  out  like  the  morning  star."  Tom  turned, 
and  the  gay  islands  that  lay  softly  upon  the  sea, 
looked  to  him  like  messengers  sent  to  welcome  him  to 
land;  and  as  he  made  the  shore,  even  the  dark  rocks 
seemed  sociable,  as  if  they  had  come  down  to  meet 
him.  He  landed  with  an  exulting  spirit  amidst  the 
cheers  of  the  populace,  and  hearty  congratulations  of 
the  few  acquaintances  he  had  formerly  left  behind, 
Isaac  was  not  among  them;  and  upon  inquiry,  Thorn 
ton  learned  that  he  was  out  of  town  at  old  Mr.  Beck- 
ford's,  late  his  guardian.  As  soon  as  Tom  could  leave 
the  city,  he  drove  out  thither. 

As  he  dashed  along  with  a  speed  that  made  the 
fields  and  trees  appear  hurrying  by  him,  he  thought 
of  the  time  when  he  trudged  the  same  road  a-foot,  and 
an  outcast,  and  not  noticed  of  a  passer-by.  "I 
always  felt  that  I  should  rise,  and  make  men  look  up 
at  me;  and  I  will  be  higher  yet  ere  long.  ]\either 
will  it  be  a  gallows  elevation,  as  my  father  prophesied 
in  his  anger.  What  a  triumph  I  have  gained  over 
them  !  They  shall  not  fail  to  hear  of  it  in  full,  and 
that  shortly.  What  a  selfish  wretch  am  I !  Whose 
hearts,  in  all  the  world,  will  be  prouder  and  gladder 
than  their's  at  my  success?"  — He  whirled  up  the 
circular  way  to  the  house,  and  sprang  to  the  ground 
as  light  as  if  buoyed  by  the  air.  There  was  one  who 
saw  him  from  behind  the  window  curtain.  "  What  a 
gallant  fellow!"  she  cried.  "  He  descended  to  the 
earth  like  one  of  the  gods.  What  a  form !  Who  can 
it  be?  It  must  be  young  Thornton.  Yes,  the  whole 
face  tallies  with  what  I've  heard  of  his  daring  and 
impetuous  character.  Heigh-ho,  I  wonder  what  's 
become  of  Mr.  Henley.  I  hope  he  has  not  broken  his 


186  TOM    THORNTON. 

poor  neck,  and  rid  himself  of  his  million  of  complaints 
at  once." 

Tom  followed  the  servant,  and  came  so  suddenly 
upon  Isaac,  that  he  was  not  prepared  to  make  his  usua! 
demonstrations  of  joy.  Tom  felt  it  for  an  instant.  But 
Isaac,  seeing  his  error,  began  repairing  it,  by  asking 
question  after  question,  hardly  giving  Tom  time  to 
answer  one  of  them,  and  expressing  all  the  while  the 
warmest  joy  at  his  success. 

"  Well,  Tom,  half  a  dozen  years  have  done  much 
for  you." 

"  Yes,  and  I  mean  that  six  to  come  shall  do 
more." 

"  Well  resolved,  as  usual,  and  surely,  I  have  no 
doubt;  for  you  have  fire  and  skill  to  melt  and  cast  to 
your  liking.  Come  along,  and  take  a  look  at  my  fair 
cousin  —  cousin  I  call  her,  though  a  third  remove. 
But,  have  a  care,  my  boy,  for  her  worn  out  rake  of  a 
husband  knows  what  a  woman  is,  and  has  a  lynx's 
eye." 

There  is  nothing  better  calculated  to  put  a  man  in 
a  woman's  power,  than  bidding  him  be  on  his  guard 
against  her;  for  he  at  once  imagines  that  he  may  be 
an  object  of  interest  to  her,  and  that  there  is  some 
thing  in  her  worth  being  a  slave  to. 

When  Thornton  entered  the  room,  the  sun  was 
down,  but  the  deep  clouds  were  on  fire  with  his  light 
and  threw  their  warm  glow  upon  a  rich  crimson  sofa, 
on  which  rested,  clad  in  white  drapery,  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Henley.  She  was  leaning  on  her  elbow  which 
sunk  into  a  cushion,  raising  her  a  little,  and  giving  a 
luxurious  curvature  to  the  body,  and  showing  the 
limbs  in  all  their  fine  proportions  and  fulness.  Her 
wrist,  a  little  bent,  shone  with  a  dazzling  whiteness, 


TOM  THORNTON.  187 

while  her  fingers  were  half  hid  among  the  leaves  of 
a  costly  book.  Her  fairy  foot,  in  a  white  satin 
slipper,  was  playing  in  the  deep  flounce  of  the  sofa, 
and  as  she  rose  with  a  pretended  embarrassment,  the 
exquisitely  turned  ancle  glanced  for  an  instant  on 
Thornton's  sight.  Something  shot  through  his  breast 
with  the  acuteness  of  an  electric  shock;  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  could  give  utterance  to  the 
passing  compliments.  His  confusion  was  not  unob 
served  by  Isaac  or  the  lady;  and  they  were  both  de 
termined  to  turn  it  to  their  several  purposes;  but  from 
very  different  motives. 

Mrs.  Henley  lived  in  Isaac's  neighbourhood  long 
before  her  marriage;  and  her  fine  person  and  beauti 
ful  face,  and  the  slow,  wavy  outline  which  deep  pas 
sion  gave  to  her  movements,  had  excited  in  him,  to 
an  intense  degree,  all  that  he  was  capable  of  feeling 
for  a  woman.  The  loose  and  evil  passions  were  strong 
in  him;  and  as  he  was  without  true  courage,  he  grati 
fied  them  by  ingenuity  and  trick.  When  such  per 
sons  are  understood,  the  men  despise,  and  the  women 
loathe  them.  All  his  endeavours  to  ingratiate  him 
self  with  his  cousin,  only  made  him  the  more  dis 
gusting  to  her;  for  when  he  was  most  intent  upon 
pleasing  her,  his  manner  was  a  mixture  of  fawning 
and  condescension,  which  moved  her  contempt  and 
touched  her  pride.  Sometimes  she  revenged  herself 
by  cold  disdain,  at  others,  by  turning  him  to  ridicule 
with  her  playful  and  ready  wit.  But  Isaac  could 
submit  to  be  trodden  on,  so  he  could  gain  his  object, 
or  compass  his  revenge;  and  he  swore  Fanny  should 
be  Mrs.  Beckford,  or  rue  the  day  she  married  anoth 
er.  He  had  failed  in  his  first  purpose,  and  was  now 
wholly  bent  on  vengeance.  He  saw  the  effect  that 


188  TOM  THORNTON. 

Tom  had  produced  on  her,  and  that  he  was  not  un 
touched.  Isaac's  plan  was  formed;  and  though  he 
had  determined  to  make  Tom  a  mere  instrument  for 
his  own  end,  he  hated  him  for  that  very  preference 
which  had  been  shown  to  him,  though  it  made  him 
more  easily  his  tool. 

Fanny,  with  all  her  hate  of  Isaac,  would  have  been 
Mrs.  Beckford,  had  no  better  establishment  offered. 
She  was  selfish,  of  strong  passions,  regardless  of 
principles,  of  unbounded  extravagance  and  ambition, 
with  a  mind  somewhat  tasteful,  yet  fond  of  the  showy, 
of  high  spirit,  and  of  quick  intellect  (which  is  every 
thing  in  fashionable  society,)  and  with  art  to  appear 
whatever  she  chose  to  be  at  the  time.  She  was  bal 
ancing  in  secret  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  marriage  with 
Isaac,  when  Mr.  Henley,  who  had  wasted  one  for 
tune  early  in  life,  now  suddenly  presented  himself 
with  a  broken  constitution  and  fretfu.  disposition,  but 
with  a  large  estate,  to  which  he  had  just  succeeded; 
and  she  in  due  time  became  Mrs.  Henley.  She  soon 
devoted  herself  to  spending  his  fortune,  and  leaving 
him  to  his  doctor  and  nurse. 

"  Why,  Tom,"  said  Isaac,  in  a  laughing  way,  but 
with  a  malignant  purpose,  "  you  were  as  careless  and 
easy  in  company  of  the  ladies  before  you  went  to  sea, 
as  you  were  at  your  whist  club;  but  you  look  as  awk 
ward  now  as  some  Jonathan,  who  is  working  himself 
up  to  a  tender  of  himself  and  kine  to  a  country 
maiden.  Does  the  salt  water  always  have  such  an 
effect?" 

"  If  it  does,"  said  Fanny,  "  there  are  more  virtues 
in  a  sea  voyage  than  I  have  before  heard  of;  and  it 
might  be  a  benefit  to  some  whom  I  had  long  put 
down  on  the  list  of  incurables. 


TOM  THORNTON.  189 

"  Why,  coz,  one  so  pretty  as  you  should  only  shoot 
cupid's  arrows,  and  not  wound  us  with  those  of  wit." 

"  'Tis  pity  it  should  have  mischiefed  you;  I  but 
shot  it  o'er  the  house." 

"  And  wounded  your  brother." 

"  Something  too  much  akin,  that,  Isaac." 

"  Then  you  are  not  for  the  platonics?  " 

"Not  with  a  handsome  youth  like  you."  —  Isaac 
bit  his  lip;  and  Tom  laughed. 

cc  Why,  Isaac,  did  I  ever  before  see  you  so  foiled  ? 
Your  have  grown  dull  since  I  left  you.  Have  your 
wits  sharpened  —  have  them  sharpened,  Isaac." 

"  So  do,  Isaac,  and  on  your  heart,"  she  whispered; 
"  it  will  serve." 

"  I  will,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  and  to  your  cost, 
you  shall  find,  ye  silly  ones." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Henley  entered,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  old  Mr.  Beckford,  who,  now  far  advanced 
in  life,  was  of  a  cheerful,  fresh  and  benevolent  aspect, 
Mr.  Beckford  shook  Thornton  heartily  by  the  hand, 
and  welcomed  him  well  ashore.  The  other  was  a  tall, 
stooping,  gaunt  figure,  with  a  sallow  and  thin  face, 
dark,  hanging  eyebrows  and  a  glancing,  cautious  eye. 
With  all  this,  he  showed  the  remains  of  a  handsome 
person,  and  was  what  is  commonly  called  a  polished 
gentleman.  He  received  Tom  with  a  courtly  distance. 

"My  dear,"  said  his  wife,  affecting  concern,  "you 
don't  know  how  uneasy  I  have  been  about  you." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  replied,  without  seeming  to 
regard  her. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  you  have  caught  your  death 
this  cool  evening." 

"  O»  y°u  are  too  anxious  about  me,  he  answered; 
I  do  not  feel  myself  dying  quite  yet."  Tom  ground 


190  TOM  THORNTON. 

his  teeth  against  each  other,   as  he  overheard  these 
replies, 

They  met  at  breakfast.  The  rich  evening  dress 
was  changed  for  a  simple  robe;  and  Fanny  looked 
as  fresh  as  if  she  had  bathed  in  the  dew  of  roses. 
When  the  uncle  and  the  husband  were  out  of  the  way, 
Isaac  gave  such  a  turn  to  the  conversation,  as  would 
lead  to  his  object.  Then  he  proposed  a  walk  in  the  little 
wood  near  the  house ;  and  when  they  had  entered  it, 
suddenly  remembered  some  particular  business,  and 
left  Tom  and  Mrs.  Henley  together.  The  light  shawl 
caught  in  the  branches,  and  what  less  could  Tom  do, 
than  adjust  it  carefully  over  the  finest  shoulders  in  the 
world,  unless  we  except  the  Venus  —  but  hers  are  not 
living  shoulders.  There  was  a  brook  to  pass,  and  an 
unsightly  tree  lying  rudely  across  the  path,  and  last  of 
all  happened  that  fatal  though  common  accident  —  and 
the  shoe  lacing  was  seen  trailing  the  ground. 

Before  many  days  Tom  had  lost  all  control  over 
himself.  He  had  but  one  feeling  and  one  thought. 
Isaac  saw  that  affairs  were  going  too  fast.  "  The 
husband  will  be  upon  the  trail  and  the  sport  be  all 
up.  We  must  have  doublings  and  crossings  ! 

The  husband  was  not  so  quicksighted  as  Isaac  fear 
ed.  He  had  always  been  jealous  of  his  wife,  and 
not  without  reason.  Jealousy,  however,  like  most 
passions,  discriminates  but  poorly;  and  Mr.  Henley 
had  been  as  much  alarmed  and  as  impatient  at  little 
circumstances,  a  thousand  times  before,  as  he  was  at 
what  was  passing  now. 

The  uncle  who  was  a  looker-on,  and  knew  well  the 
wife's  character  and  Tom's  ardent  temperament,  joined 
with  Isaac,  though  from  opposite  motives,  in  urging 
Tom  to  hasten  his  visit  to  his  father,  from  whom  hs 


TOM  THORNTON.  191 

had  received  a  kind  letter  calling  him  home.  He  had 
not  lost  his  affection  for  his  parents,  but  he  was  com 
pletely  infatuated.  Day  after  day  was  fixed  for 
the  visit,  and  it  was  as  many  times  put  off.  "I  will 
propose  going  with  him,  and  to-morrow,"  said  Isaac  to 
himself.  "  I  am  not  ready  for  the  catastrophe.  He 
must  be  more  in  my  power.  He  must  rake,  he  must 
game,  he  must  want  money."  For  the  passion  which 
Isaac  saw  in  his  cousin,  for  young  Thornton,  had 
worked  up  towards  him  the  hate  of  a  fiend. 

After  much  urging,  Tom  was  ready,  and  they 
started.  It  was  in  vain  that  Isaac  endeavoured  to 
draw  him  into  conversation.  At  length  his  home  ap 
peared  in  sight.  It  gave  Tom  the  first  happy  feeling 
he  had  been  conscious  of  since  leaving  Beckford 
house.  It  was  with  sincere  joy  he  saw  his  parents, 
and  his  mother's  tears  touched  his  heart.  With  all  his 
affection,  he  grew  restless  in  a  day  or  two,  and  pleaded 
his  duties  as  a  reason  for  his  return.  The  old  gen,tle- 
man  had  received  from  Mr.  Beckford  a  letter  hinting 
at  Tom's  dangerous  situation.  He  took  his  son  aside, 
and  talked  kindly  and  earnestly  with  him  upon  the 
subject.  Tom  at  first  denied  that  there  was  any  thing 
to  fear.  "Look  carefully  into  your  heart,"  said  his 
father.  Tom  did,  and  then  swore  that  he  would  think 
no  more  of  her.  —  "  Oaths  will  not  do  it,  my  son;  the 
mind  must  be  bent  up  to  fly  the  temptation,  or  you 
run  to  your  ruin."  —  He  promised  to  himself  and  to 
his  father  that  he  would;  but  the  next  day  hastened 
to  it  with  speed  of  fire.  —  "I  cannot  show  her  in 
difference  at  meeting,  but  at  least  I  will  appear  com 
posed,"  thought  he. 

Upon  reaching  the  house,  Isaac  went  immediately 
to  his  chamber,  and  Thornton,  upon  entering  the 


192  TOM  THORNTON. 

parlour,  suddenly  met  Mrs.  Henley  alone.  She  sprang 
hastily  towards  him;  then  shrinking  back,  and  glow 
ing  with  what  Tom  took  for  shame,  let  fall  her  beau 
tifully  fringed  lids.  He  spoke  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
She  uttered  a  broken  word  or  two;  then  lifting  her 
eyes  to  his,  showed  them  drinking  deep  of  passion. 
He  would  that  instant  have  folded  her  to  him,  but  a 
step  was  heard  in  the  room.  He  darted  out  of  the  house, 
muttering  between  his  teeth  something  about  his 
disappointment,  and  a  curse  on  the  fool  who  caused  it. 

He  walked  on,  his  brain  maddened  with  the  tumult 
of  passions  within  him.  He  was  not  sensible  whither 
he  was  going,  till  he  suddenly  saw  at  his  feet  the 
grave  of  Sally  Wentworth.  He  recoiled  from  it  like 
a  fallen  angel  from  the  presence  of  the  holy;  and  his 
abominations  rose  up  black  and  awful  before  him. 
He  felt  like  an  outcast  from  heaven;  as  if  the  very 
dead  condemned  him,  and  shut  him  out  as  a  creature 
unfit  to  lie  down  to  rest  with  them. 

"  The  dead,  the  dead,  no  passions  are  torturing 
them;  but  shall  I  ever  shake  off  mine?"  He  was 
leaning  upon  the  grave  stone,  —  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
grave,  —  shuddering  at  his  own  passions,  and  think 
ing  on  the  quiet  below  him,  when  some  one  spoke.  — 
"  Thomas  Thornton,"  said  the  voice  "  it  is  well  for  us 
to  be  here."  He  turned  suddenly,  and  met  the  solemn, 
but  mild  countenance  of  Sally's  mother.  She  observ 
ed  the  dark  expression  of  his  face. 

"  That  should  not  be  the  face  of  one  who  holds  com 
munion  with  the  dead.  What  ails  thee,  man?  Thou 
lookest  like  one  condemned  for  his  crimes,  yet  afraid 
to  die.  It  is  an  awful  thing  so  to  live,  as  to  fear  to  die." 

"  It  is  not  death  I  fear,  good  mother,  it  is  life,  — it 
is  myself. )} 


-  <  V    O  * 

(V   XJHE 


TOM   THORNTON.  193 

"  And  dare  you  fear  to  live,  and  yet  not  dread  to 
die,  Thornton?  There  is  a  double  and  a  woful  curse 
upon  thee  then." 

"  Do  not  you  curse  me,  and  standing  here,  too, 
lest  the  dead  sanction  it." 

cc  I  curse  thee?  She  that  lies  here,  cursed  not 
him  that  brought  misery  upon  her.  Neither  would  I, 
thee.  It  becomes  not  us  to  condemn  one  another. 
But  I  fear  for  you,  Thornton,  I  fear  for  you.  And 
did  I  not,  the  morning  you  left  me,  warn  you  take 
heed  to  your  passions?  —  I  cannot  talk  with  others 
here,"  she  said,  looking  on  her  daughter's  grave. — 
She  turned  away,  and  he  followed  her. 

"  I  have  looked  to  see  you,  day  after  day,"  she  con 
tinued,  as  they  walked  towards  the  house;  "for  I 
have  taken  more  concern  in  you,  than  I  ever  thought 
to  again  in  fellow-mortal.  It  has  been  whispered  me, 
how  you  left  home  the  night  you  knocked  at  my  door; 
and  it  did  my  heart  good  to  hear,  a  few  days  ago,  that 
you  had  gone  to  see  your  father  and  mother.  Nor  for 
that  alone  was  I  glad,  but  that  it  might  break  the  web 
which  I  saw  a  subtle  spider  weaving  round  you." 
Thornton  coloured.  (t  You  have  not  darkened  this 
door, 3 '  said  she,  as  they  drew  up  to  the  cottage.  "  My 
eye  has  been  upon  you,  nevertheless,  at  the  house 
yonder."  They  both  turned  toward  it. 

«'  'T  is  she ! "  cried  out  Thornton,  "  Where  can  she 
have  been?  " 

"  Here,  no  doubt,  and  for  no  good  purpose,  I  fear. 
For  little  have  I  seen  of  her  for  months  past;  and  now 
she  has  but  just  missed  you,"  added  the  old  woman, 
casting  a  look  of  rebuke  upon  Tom.  His  cheek 
flushed  a  burning  red;  but  his  eager  and  impatient 
eye  was  fixed,  like  a  hound  in  leash,  on  the  figure  at 
13 


194  TOM  THORNTON. 

a  distance.  He  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  and  lean 
ing  forward.  "  How  this  heath  opens  wide  round 
about  her,  that  the  world  may  see  her  move !  I  must 
be  gone,  good  mother." 

"  Hold,  hold !  "  said  the  old  woman,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  fastening  her  eye  on  his  fiery 
countenance,  "  Art  mad?  " 

"  Mad  ?  Ay,  mad  as  the  winds.  She  '11  be  beyond 
reach  instantly.  I  must  go." 

"  By  the  spirit  of  her  whose  grave  you  just  stood 
by,  I  bid  you  stay." — His  hands  fell  powerless,  but 
his  eye  still  rested  on  the  object.  She  was  ascending 
a  rising  ground;  and  as  she  reached  the  top  of  it,  and 
her  form  appeared  against  a  burnished  evening  sky, 
her  long  purple  mantle  waving  in  the  winds,  "  She 
touches  not  earth,"  he  cried,  "but  moves  in  glory 
amidst  the  very  clouds." 

"  Monster!  "  cried  the  old  woman,  in  a  tone  of  hor 
ror,  "  can  you  look  yonder,  and  worship  any  but 
God  ?  "  The  voice  went  through  him  like  a  word  from 

heaven. 

"  Mother,    forgive   me,"    said   he,     humbled   and 

ashamed. 

"  Ask  forgiveness  of  Him  you  have  offended,  and 
not  of  me."  As  she  looked  upon  him,  her  heart 
yearned  towards  him  as  a  mother's  for  her  child.  — 
He  raised  his  eyes  timidly  towards  the  west  once 
more,  but  she,  whom  he  sought,  had  gone  down  the 
hill  and  was  out  of  sight.  His  countenance  fell. 

"  Would  that  she  could  pass  so  from  your  mind! " 

"  Would  that  I  could  be  taught  to  wish  it,"  he  mur 
mured. 

"  Turn  then,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  sky,  "  and 
learn  to  love  the  works  that  God  has  made,  and  still 


TOM  THORNTON.  195 

keeps  innocent  —  to  love  them  because  they  are  his 
messengers  to  us,  the  ministers  of  his  power,  the  re- 
vealers  of  his  love  for  us.     To  rejoice  in  them    to 
feel  the  heart  thus  moved   by  them,  is  true  worship. 
L  have  stood,  at  an  hour  like  this,  and  looked  till  I 
have  thought  the  light  of  heaven  was  opening  upon 
me,  and  God  was  near  me.  "  —  She  turned  once  more 
toward  Thornton.      His    countenance    had    become 
calm  and   elevated.  _  «  My   son,  could  you  learn  to 
ill  yourself  with  such  thoughts  as  are  now  within  you 
the  allurements  of  the  world   would   be    a   tasteless 
show  to  you.     But  the  heart  must  love  something,— 
it  must  be  sin  or  goodness."  — There    was   a   short 
pause.     At  last  said  the  old  woman,   «  She  you  hunt 
after  is  another's.     She  vowed  herself  his  at  the  altar; 
and  if  it  is  a  stain  on  her  soul,  would  it  for  that  be 
less  a  sin  in  you  to  wrong  him?  " 

"I  would  wrong  no  man,"  said  Thornton. 
1  What!  can  you  say  how  far  you  will  go,  when 
you  cannot  stop  now?" 

"I  will,  I  will,  even  now." 

:c  Beware  that  you  stumble  not  through  too  much 
confidence.     Turn  away  from  the  temptation ;  for  she 
who  tempts  you,  I  fear,  is  eager  to  draw  you  on     I 
wouldnot  speak  itofherbut  for  your  good;""  said  the 
old  woman,  the  colour  coming  to  her  pale  cheek  — 
"  for  she  was  my  foster-child,  and  has  slept  in  these 
arms,  and  I  loved  her  next  to  my  own.     But  ambition 
and  vanity  and  all  unchecked  passions  have  been  busy 
at  her  heart.     It  was  for  houses  and  lands  and  a  hi<rh 
place  m  the  world,  that  she  bartered   herself;  and 
she  who  will  do  that  by  holy  covenant,  may  one  day 
do   it   without    bond.     You   are  now  going  into  the 
world  again;  but  carry  with  you,  if  you  would  have 


196  TOM  THORNTON. 

mercy  on  your  soul,  what  I  have  said;  and  as  you 
keep  it  with  you,  so  will  heaven  bless  you." 

He  grasped  her  hand;  and  then  turned  and  walked 
homeward.  She  looked  after  him  till  he  was  lost  in 
the  twilight;  then  shut  her  door  with  a  misgiving 
heart. 

Thornton  went  directly  to  his  chamber.  He  was 
afraid  of  Isaac's  ridicule,  and  dared  not  trust  himself 
with  a  sight  of  Mrs.  Henley.  He  was  melancholy 
and  humble;  but  there  was  a  virtue  in  his  state  of 
mind,  which  made  him  less  impatient  of  himself  than 
he  had  been  for  many  weeks  past.  He  thought  of 
the  widow  and  her  daughter  —  of  death,  and  what  is 
to  come,  and  his  passions  subsided,  and  the  storm  of 
the  mind  seemed  clearing  and  settling  away,  and  he 
had  the  quiet  sleep  of  a  good  man.  But  the  light 
and  stir  of  day,  which  scatter  our  resolves  and  fill  us 
with  the  present,  came  on;  and  the  gay  and  beautiful 
vision  of  Fanny  broke  upon  him  with  the  morning  sun. 

He  sprang  from  bed;  and  in  his  eagerness  to  hasten 
down  stairs,  every  thing  was  out  of  place,  and  fretting 
him  with  delay.  None  but  the  domestics  were  up.  He 
walked  out  a  few  steps,  returned,  then  went  out  again; 
and  thus  continued  till  the  breakfast  hour  arrived.  He 
met  only  Mr.  Beckford  and  Isaac  at  table.  His  eye 
was  constantly  on  the  door.  —  "  Mr.  Henley  and  lady 
left  us  about  dusk  last  night,  for  the  city,"  said  the 
old  gentleman.  Thornton's  countenance  changed. — 
"  I  fear  you  will  never  be  a  gallant,"  said  Isaac, 
"  To  think  that  you  should  not  be  here,  to  bid  so  fair 
a  lady  farewell!  But  you  may  make  such  amends  as 
you  can,  for  we  all  move  town-ward  to-morrow." 

The  next  day  they  reached  the  city.  —  "Make  your 
self  ready,"  said  Isaac,  "for  we  are  to  go  to  Hen- 


TOM   THORNTON.  197 

ley's  to-night,  you  know."  As  they  passed  along  the 
streets,  the  brilliantly  lighted  shops,  the  gay  faces  and 
the  talk  within  them,  and  then  the  shadow  of  a  build 
ing  thrown  in  straight  line  across  the  pavement,  and 
some  one  stealing  through  it  in  silence,  gave  a  sud 
den  contrast,  and  a  strange  mixture  of  open  gayety, 
and  mysterious  stillness  to  the  scene,  which  excited 
Thornton's  mind,  at  the  same  time  that  he  felt  a  cau 
tiousness  stealing  over  him.  Then  was  heard  the 
distant  rumbling  of  a  carriage.  Presently  it  would 
shoot  by  them  with  a  stunning  rattling  of  the  wheels, 
and  sharp  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  now  and  then 
striking  fire,  and  all  would  die  away  again  in  the 
darkness  and  distance. 

They  at  length  reached  the  superb  mansion  of  Mr. 
Henley.  It  was  like  entering  into  broad  daylight. 
It  shone  like  a  fairy  palace  in  the  Arabian  Nights. 
And  there  stood  Mrs.  Henley  under  a  large  chande 
lier,  richly  and  splendidly  dressed;  her  fair  skin 
sparkling  with  an  almost  metallic  brightness,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  light  and  action.  At  the  first  glance  she 
coloured;  but  recovering  herself  with  a  practised 
readiness,  gave  Thornton  a  frank  welcome,  at  the 
same  time  introducing  him  to  the  circle  about  her. 
Those  who  observed  his  confusion,  set  it  down  to 
bashfulness,  and  as  such,  passed  it  by.  She  was  in 
full  spirits,  talked  much  and  brilliantly;  and  his  fine 
figure  and  face,  his  honest  vehemence  and  hearty  good 
nature,  drew  round  them  the  choicest  part  of  the  com 
pany.  Then  came  the  dance  with  all  its  windings 
and  wavy  motions;  and  her  soft  hand  rested  too  long 
in  his.  The  fingers  of  each  trembled,  and  told  what 
they  should  not.  The  flame  was  again  lighted  up 
within  him,  and  it  rose  and  swept  along  with  the  rush 


198  TOM    THORNTON. 

and  desolation  of  a  forest  fire.  He  lingered  as  long 
as  Isaac  dared  let  him;  and  was  at  last  half  drawn 
away  by  him  from  the  house.  He  passed  the  remain 
der  of  the  night,  at  one  time  calling  himself  a  madman 
and  villain,  and  then,  in  his  hot  impatience,  swearing 
that  no  earthly  power  should  bar  him  his  way.  The 
thought  of  her  now  fully  possessed  him.  She  saw  the 
power  she  had  over  him,  and  loved  it  too  well  to  risk 
it,  by  too  easily  yielding  to  his  passion.  He  had  no 
rest  out  of  her  presence,  followed  her  wherever  she 
went,  and  was  at  her  house  morning  and  evening. 

"Tom,"  said  Isaac,  one  day,  "do  you  know  that 
the  world  begin  to  talk  about  you,  and  my  sweet  coz  ?  " 

11  I  care  not  for  their  talk.  What  have  they  to  do 
with  me  or  with  her?  " 

"  Much,  my  young  blood,  so  long  as  you  make  a 
part  of  the  world.  And  it  is  something  to  me,  Tom, 
and  touches  me  nearly.  You  know  not  your  danger; 
but  I  must  not  let  you  bring  disgrace  upon  any  of  our 
relations,  however  distant.  Besides,  the  husband 
grows  suspicious;  and  would  you  spill  his  blood,  or 
throw  so  fine  a  girl  out  from  fortune?" 

"God  forbid,"  said  he  warmly.  "Yet,  I  know 
not,  Isaac,  —  my  power  over  myself  is  gone.  Save 
me,  save  me." 

"  And  so  I  will,  if  you  will  be  a  man.  We  must 
change  the  scene;  and  you  shall  see  some  good  fel 
lows,  and  be  as  merry  as  ever,  I  warrant  you.  Come 
along  with  me." 

Tom  followed  as  if  his  self-will  was  lost.  He 
talked  and  laughed  and  had  his  joke,  and  was  called 
a  lad  of  spirit.  He  drank  to  excess,  and  grew  restiff. 
The  cool  Isaac  kept  an  eye  upon  him,  without  being 
observed,  and  took  him  off  in  time.  "  This  will  suf- 


TOM    THORNTON.  199 

fice  for  a  beginning,"  said  Isaac  to  himself.     "  We 
will  minister  a  little  more  freely  next  time." 

Thornton  waked  languid,  and  full  of  remorse;  still 
he  found  himself  in  a  few  hours  at  Henley's  house. 
Isaac  did  not  try  to  prevent  it.  He  was  only  retard 
ing  the  accomplishment  of  Tom's  wishes,  that  he 
might  ruin  him  altogether.  Then  came  more  riot  and 
excess,  and  lastly,  gambling.  And  Tom  played  rashly 
and  lost;  for  he  was  trying  to  fly  from  himself,  and 
cared  not  for  fortune.  And  Isaac  lent  him  money 
now  and  then,  and  oftener  found  other  friends  to 
furnish  him.  —  All  was  ripening  for  Isaac's  purposes. 

In  the  midst  of  this,  Tom  received  a  letter  from  his 
father,  written  in  the  anguish  of  the  mind,  and  calling 
upon  his  son,  if  he  would  not  blast  an  old  man's  hopes, 
to  leave  the  city  and  come  to  him.  The  letter  spoke 
of  Tom's  mother,  her  distress,  and  the  fondness  with 
which,  in  the  midst  of  it,  she  clung  to  her  only  child. 
Tom  stamped  upon  the  floor,  with  vexation  and  shame ; 
cursing  himself  as  the  vilest  wretch  alive.  "  I  will 
go  to  them,"  cried  he,  "I '11  go,  by  to-morrow's  light." 
The  morning  came,  and  then  he  thought  of  taking  an 
eternal  farewell,  and  the  like.  He  lingered,  and  Mrs. 
Henley's  carriage  drove  by.  There  was  a  familiar 
nod,  and  a  smile,  and  his  resolutions  were  again  gone 
with  the  wind.  That  night  he  played,  and  lost,  and 
grew  angry  almost  to  madness.  Then  came  a  duel. 
He  was  wounded,  and  called  a  man  of  honour. 

In  a  few  days,  however,  he  was  able  to  visit  at 
Henley's.  Nothing  interests  a  fashionable  woman  half 
so  much,  as  a  genteel  young  fellow  with  his  arm  in  a 
sling,  particularly  if  he  received  his  hurt  in  a  duel. 
Mrs.  Henley  turned  pale  when  she  saw  Thornton; 
spoke  breathingly  of  his  wound,  and  asked  a  thousand 


200  TOM   THORNTON. 

kind  questions  about  it.  —  "  The  hand  hangs  a  little 
too  low,  methinks;  let  me  shorten  the  handkerchief." 
And  standing  by  his  side,  her  arms  were  round  his 
neck,  as  she  was  trying  to  untie  the  knot.  Their 
hearts  beat  quick.  Thornton  could  control  himself 
no  longer, but  pressed  her  madly  to  him.  Her  head 
sunk  upon  his  shoulder,  while  she  murmured  that  he 
would  be  her  ruin.  There  were  vows  of  eternal  love, 
and  protestations  of  honour,  and  an  assignation.  The 
last  at  least,  was  not  kept,  for  Mr.  Henley  left  town 
early  the  next  day,  compelling  his  wife  to  accompany 
him.  He  had  heard  and  seen  enough  to  raise  his 
suspicions.  He  did  not  want  courage  to  call  Tom 
out,  but  relished  little  the  thought  of  being  pointed  at 
as  the  unhappy  man  who  had  been  engaged  in  an  affair 
of  honour  with  his  wife's  friend. 

When  Thornton  called  in  the  morning,  the  house 
was  shut  up.  He  rung,  but  no  one  came  to  the  door. 
After  walking  some  time  before  the  house,  he  returned 
to  inquire  of  Isaac  whither  they  had  gone.  Isaac 
could  only  conjecture.  Tom  uttered  the  direst  impre 
cations  upon  the  jealous  dolt's  head.  Isaac  affected 
to  be  amused  at  Tom's  wrath. 

"  Why,  the  wench  has  jilted  you,  my  young  sprig. 
You  stood  shill-I-shall-I  too  long."  But  he  bit  his 
lips,  and  swore  inwardly;  for  all  his  plotting  had  come 
to  nothing. 

"  I  '11  hunt  them  the  world  through,"  cried  Tom, 
11  ere  I  '11  be  thus  thwarted." 

He  went  to  his  chamber,  and  found  on  his  table  a 
letter  showing  the  greatest  alarm  in  his  mother,  for 
his  father's  life.  "  What!  does  death  cross  between 
me  and  her,"  exclaimed  he,  wildly.  His  blood  curdled 
with  horror  at  the  thought  of  what  he  had  uttered.  — 


TOM   THORNTON.  201 

— She  has  made  me  a  child  of  hell,"  he  cried,  in  the 
agony  of  the  passions  fighting  within  him.  "  Let  me 
be  gone,  let  me  be  gone  from  this  place  of  sin."  He 
reached  home  in  time  to  close  his  father's  eyes  and 
lay  him  in  his  grave.  There  was  something  more 
than  grief  in  him  for  his  father's  death.  It  was  the 
fear  that  he  had  hastened  it  on.  "  He  was  proud  of 
me,"  said  Tom  to  himself,  "  harebrained  as  I  was. 
And  I  gave  him  hope,  and  in  the  midst  of  it,  let  a 
woman,  who  perhaps  has  forgotten  me,  cut  it  off ;  and 
I  have  laid  him  in  his  grave,  sorrowful  and  disap 
pointed.  He  had  a  soul  of  honour;  and  I,  who  was 
his  son,  did  all  I  could  to  wound  him." 

The  grief  of  his  mother  and  her  imploring  helpless 
ness  took  Thornton's  mind  off  from  its  regret  and 
painful  thoughts,  while  it  softened  his  heart,  and  laid 
it  open  to  those  kind  and  gentle  affections,  against 
which  it  had  for  a  long  time  been  shut.  His  manner 
to  her  was  as  mild,  and  soothing,  and  regardful,  as  if 
no  headlong  passions  had  ever  stirred  him:  There 
was  something  almost  parental  in  it.  And  when  the 
time  came  that  he  should  adjust  his  father's  affairs, 
in  order  to  go  to  sea  again,  he  was  delicate  and  gen 
erous  towards  his  mother,  to  an  extreme. 

When  the  hour  arrived  for  him  to  leave  her,  she 
hung  round  him,  and  wept  bitterly.  "  There  is  now 
no  one  in  all  the  earth  left  for  me  to  lean  upon,  but 
you,  Thomas;  and  my  soul  cleaves  to  you  as  all 
betwixt  me  and  death.  Remember  your  fond  old 
mother,  when  you  are  gone  from  her.  You  will 
think  of  me  on  the  seas,  but,  forgive  me,  Tom,  you 
may  not  in  the  city." 

"  Think  not  so  hardly  of  me,  my  mother ;  my  heart  is 
not  all  seared  yet.  Can  I  lose  all  thought  of  you 


202  TOM  THORNTON. 

any  where,  when  perhaps,"  he  said,  brushing  a  tear 
from  his  lash,  "  It  is  I  who  have  made  you  so  soon  to 
be' alone?  No,  I  will  remember  you  not  only  in  sor 
row  and  in  hours  of  solitude  and  thoughtfulness,  but- 
bear  you  with  me  in  my  daily  life,  and  think  how  dear 
are  a  mother's  pride  and  joy  in  a  good  son." 

And  when  he  left  her,  he  begged  her  blessing  with 
as  submissive  and  meek  a  feeling  as  ever  entered 
man's  soul.  Intimate  affections  and  beautiful  thoughts 
were  forever  shooting  up  within  him;  but  his  passions 
would  sweep  over  them  like  a  strong  wind,  and  leave 
them  torn  and  dead  in  the  dust. 

He  reached  the  city  a  few  days  before  sailing. 
His  composed,  serious  manner  awed  Isaac,  and  made 
him  hate  him  more  than  ever.  Thornton  discharged 
his  debts  contracted  with  money-lenders,  and  found 
enough  left  out  of  his  father's  estate  to  pay  Isaac. 
Isaac  would  have  put  off  receiving  it.  —  "I  shall  never 
forget  your  kindness,"  said  Tom.  "  I3ut  I  cannot  see 
why  you  would  keep  a  friend  under  such  an  obliga 
tion,  and  that  too  unnecessarily,  and  against  his  will. " 
Isaac  took  the  money  without  farther  parley,  with  a 
resolution  of  perseverance  in  Tom's  ruin,  which,  in  a 
good  cause,  would  have  done  honour  to  a  saint. 

Thornton  more  than  once  passed  Henley  house,  as 
he  strolled  out  in  the  night;  and  he  would  stand  and 
look  toward  it,  till  the  bright  figure  of  her  he  thought 
on  grew  luminous  to  his  mind;  and  he  would  follow 
it  till  his  eyeballs  ached,  as  it  past  off  into  the  dark 
ness.  The  passion  had  been  laid  for  a  time,  but  only 
to  burst  out  more  violently  than  ever.  Before,  it 
took  possession  of  him  in  the  uproar  of  the  mind,  but 
now,  it  had  become  mixed  with  his  deepest  sensations 
and  most  serious  purposes. 


TOM  THORNTON.  203 

In  a  few  days  the  ship  bore  him  from  shore.  He 
was  gone  two  years;  but  in  all  countries,  through  the 
hot  and  successful  fight,  in  storm  and  calm,  the  sense 
of  this  woman  clung  to  him  like  his  very  being.  And 
when  at  last,  he  once  more  spied  the  gay  city  rising 
as  it  were  out  of  the  water,  he  leaped,  like  a  child, 
for  joy.  —  "Neither  man,  nor  land,  nor  sea,  shall 
keep  me  from  her  longer.  Some  devil  may  have  pos 
sessed  me,  but  I  cannot,  I  will  not  struggle  any  more. 
She 's  mine,  come  on't  what  may." — And  he  was 
given  over  to  his  terrible  passions,  with  little  to  thwart 
them;  for  he  found  the  elegant  Mrs.  Henley  a  gay 
and  splendid  widow. 

Thornton  had  returned,  it  was  true,  without  money, 
but  then  he  had  the  grandest  face  and  figure  in  the 
world,  and  he  was  the  talk  of  every  body.  Besides, 
as  fascinating  as  the  widow  was,  few  men  liked  her 
extravagant  and  high  spirit. 

Isaac  put  in  for  her  favours,  and  was  repulsed. 
He  was  silent,  but  the  wound  rankled.  Old  Mr. 
Beckford  warned  Thornton.  Tom  grew  angry  and 
avoided  him;  and  Isaac  helped  on  the  match  without 
appearing  to  do  so.  The  old  gentleman  gave  Mrs. 
Thornton  notice;  and  she  wrote  to  her  son,  imploring 
him  to  come  to  her,  or,  at  least,  not  to  plunge  himseK 
headlong  into  ruin.  She  called  upon  him  in  the 
name  of  his  father,  and  as  he  cared  for  her  life.  It 
was  all  in  vain;  he  would  hear  nothing,  he  would  see 
nothing;  he  was  married,  and  undone. 

For  a  time,  all  was  blaze  and  motion  and  sound. 
No  house  was  furnished  like  the  dashing  Mrs.  Thorn 
ton's,  no  parties  half  so  splendid;  and  no  dinners  so 
costly,  and  got  up  in  such  taste,  as  the  Thorntons' ;  and 
no  one  drove  such  a  four-in-hand.  And  if  high  life 


204  TOM  THORNTON. 

may  in  truth  be  called  life,  no  one  knew  better  how 
to  live  than  the  Thorntons.  But  it  becomes  our  dis 
ease,  it  breaks  up  our  thoughts,  and  kills  our  hearts, 
and  makes  what  should  be  individual  and  fresh  in  us, 
common  and  stale.  Politeness  becomes  feigning, 
and  the  play  of  the  affections  is  lost  in  the  practice  of 
forms. 

Thornton  began  soon  to  find  it  so;  and  to  relieve 
its  satiety,  he  pushed  father  into  excesses.  A  kind 
of  feeling,  too,  rather  than  reflection,  was  growing  up 
in  him,  that  beauty,  and  high  spirits,  and  a  bright, 
ready  intellect  in  a  woman,  would  not  stand  in  the 
stead  of  principle,  and  delicacy,  and  a  fond  heart. 
His  pride  also  was  hurt,  that  instead  of  being  looked 
up  to  with  kind  regard,  he  was  treated  rather  as  an 
important  part  in  a  splendid  establishment;  that  his 
fine  person  was  praised,  and  elegant  manners  admired, 
and  even  his  very  mind  valued,  just  so  far  as  they 
served  for  an  ornament,  and  a  help  to  notoriety. 

He  received  frequent  letters  from  his  mother  com 
plaining  of  his  seldom  writing,  and  of  his  not  coming  to 
visit  her  in  her  deserted  state.  She  spoke  of  her  low 
spirits,  her  feeble  health,  and  her  concern  for  him. 
Melancholy  reflections  were  made,  of  a  general  na 
ture,  but  such  as  he  well  knew  how  to  apply  to  him 
self.  He  saw  that  her  love  of  him,  her  disappoint 
ment  and  anxiety,  were  wearing  her  away ;  and  the 
awful  thought  that  he  was  hurrying  her  to  the  grave, 
crossed  him  in  his  riot  and  excess. 

His  power  over  himself  was  gone;  he  had  become 
the  slave  of  his  passions;  and  they  bore  him  along 
with  a  never  resting  swiftness.  He  found  the  woman, 
for  whom  he  had  sacrificed  all  that  was  worthy  in  his 
character,  selfish  and  regardless  of  his  feelings.  The 


TOM  THORNTON.  205 

disappointment  made  him  hurry  into  dissipation  with 
the  craving  appetite  of  a  diseased  man;  and  Isaac 
was  always  a  friend  at  hand,  to  assist  him.  His  wife 
was  no  less  extravagant  than  he;  and  at  last  came 
borrowing  and  mortgages;  and  squandering  seemed 
to  increase  as  their  fortune  lessened.  He  ran  into 
gaming  to  retrieve  his  circumstances,  but  with  galled 
feelings  and  a  fevered  brain;  and  it  made  his  condition 
the  more  desperate. 

Isaac's  spirits  rose,  as  he  saw  Thornton  sinking. 
He  assisted  him  as  before  in  procuring  loans,  and  lent 
him  money  besides.  —  "  The  day  is  near,"  said  Isaac, 
to  himself,  "in  which  I  shall  live  to  see  that  lordly 
spirit  brought  down.  And  my  other  end  shall  be  com 
passed  too,  let  it  cost  me  ever  so  dear.  Yes,  my 
proud  madam  must  be  supported  in  her  magnificence; 
but  the  scorned  and  loathed  Isaac  must  be  wooed  then 
like  the  dearest  of  men.  What  care  I,  though  she 
feign  it  like  the  commonest  of  her  sex,  while  in  the 
bitterness  of  her  heart,  she  secretly  curses  me  in  the 
midst  of  it?  Does  it  not  make  fuller  my  revenge!" 

And  on  he  went,  wily  and  playfully,  to  his  object. 
Though  he  had  a  spirit  of  avarice  not  to  be  glutted, 
yet  he  would  throw  out  his  wealth  like  water,  to  sate 
his  hate  or  lust.  He  caused  information  of  Thorn 
ton's  circumstances  to  be  given  to  one  of  the  credit 
ors.  He  took  care  to  be  at  the  house  when  service 
was  made.  Thornton's  wrath  was  beyond  all  bounds; 
he  threatened  the  officer's  life,  swore  it  was  his  wife 
who  had  brought  him  to  disgrace  and  ruin,  and  cursed 
his  folly  that  he  had  ever  married.  She  said  some 
thing  sneeringly  about  half-pay  officers.  Tom's  eyes 
flashed  fire,  and  Isaac  became  mediator.  —  "Upon 
my  word,  Thornton,  my  dear  friend,  you  must  com- 


206  TOM  THORNTON. 

mand  yourself,  or  this  will  get  wind,  and  they  will  all 
be  on  you,  like  harpies.  For  heaven's  sake,  com 
mand  yourself.  —  My  dear  Sir,  how  great  is  the 
debt?  Upon  my  soul,  no  trifling  sum.  Let  me  see  — 
I  have  a  deposit  for  a  certain  purpose.  I  must  con 
trive  to  meet  that  in  another  way;  my  friend  must  not 
be  ruined  thus."  He  made  himself  answerable  to 
the  officer.  —  "  And  here,  Tom,  you  must  give  this 
as  hush-money  to  the  man.  You  have  used  him  too 
roughly. "< —  All  this  was  done  in  the  presence  of  the 
wife. 

Affairs  had  now  nearly  reached  the  worst;  and 
Thornton's  disappointments  and  troubles  had  almost 
made  a  madman  of  him.  When  heated  with  wine,  or 
loss  at  play,  his  rage  made  him  dangerous,  and  he 
became  the  dread  of  his  companions.  Nothing  but 
Isaac's  plausible  and  smooth  manner  had  any  control 
over  him;  and  with  Isaac,  Thornton  was  like  a  tiger 
with  his  keeper. 

Old  Mr.  Beckford,  with  the  best  intentions,  fre 
quently  wrote  Tom's  mother  about  him.  It  only  served 
to  hasten  the  wretched  woman's  decline,  and  drive 
him  on  the  faster,  that  he  might  shake  off  the  remorse 
which  his  mother's  letters  caused  him. 

Isaac  never  shut  his  eyes  upon  his  object;  and  as 
Tom's  utter  ruin  drew  on,  and  the  time  had  nearly 
come  for  Isaac's  fulfilling  his  plans,  and  accomplishing 
his  last  wish,  it  required  all  the  hypocrisy  of  his  na 
ture  not  to  break  his  purpose  too  soon  to  the  wife. 
He  knew  ^hat  he  had  no  strong  virtue  to  struggle 
against,  but  something  as  stubborn,  a  woman's  dislike. 
And  he  played  his  part  well;  he  was  humble,  he  was 
grieved  for  their  situation,  he  spoke  timidly  of  his  long 
contest  with  himself  to  overcome  his  love  for  her,  and 


TOM  THORNTON.  207 

the  misery  it  caused  him;  and  shrunk  back  when  he 
saw  scorn  on  her  lip.  Then  he  spoke  of  his  fortune, 
and  his  wish  that  he  had  been  worthy  to  have  saved 
such  a  woman  from  poverty,  and  the  neglect  which  a 
hard  world  might  one  day  show  her.  And  so  he 
wound  his  way. 

She  hid  not  her  contempt  from  him;  she  scrupled 
not  to  say  that  it  was  dread  of  poverty  and  of  a  fall 
from  high  life,  that  made  her  yield  to  the  man  she  de 
spised;  that  she  had  seen  through  his  designs  long 
ago.  Still  he  supplied  her  with  money  to  support  her 
extravagance;  and  she  made  him  throw  her  husband's 
obligations  into  the  fire,  before  her,  with  his  own 
hands.  She  yielded,  and  the  man  obtained  that  for 
which  he  had  hunted  hard  for  years,  and  the  devil 
had  his  triumph. 

It  lasted  not  long.  Thornton's  suspicions  were 
awakened.  He  did  not  burst  out  in  fury.  Every 
passion  within  him  settled  down  into  a  deathlike  still 
ness.  His  mind  seemed  suddenly  to  take  all  the 
shrewdness  and  ingenuity  of  the  crazed  in  effecting 
their  object.  And  he  traced  out,  step  by  step,  the 
windings  of  the  subtle  Isaac. 

At  last,  he  tracked  him  to  the  place  of  assignation. 
The  entrance  was  barred.  He  broke  it  down'withthe 
strength  of  an  enraged  giant.  Isaac  fled  through 
another  passage,  as  Thornton  entered.  Thornton 
heeded  not  his  wife ;  his  soul  was  bent  up  to  a  single 
purpose,  and  that  a  terrible  one,  and  he  saw  no  other 
object  in  the  world.  He  followed  with  the  speed  of 
lightning;  but  passing  swiftly  by  a  narrow,  dark  side- 
passage,  through  which  Isaac  had  escaped,  missed 
his  prey.  He  wound  through  the  passages  of  the 
house,  with  the  eagerness  of  a  blood-hound,  —  then 


208  TOM  THORNTON. 

through  the  by-lanes  of  the  city,  till  he  reached  Beck- 
ford  house.  He  asked  of  the  servants,  in  a  composed 
manner,  for  Mr.  Beckford.  He  had  gone  out  some 
time  before,  and  had  not  returned.  Thornton  saw 
that  they  were  not  deceiving  him.  He  walked  the 
city  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  returned  at  night  to  pre 
pare  himself  for  a  journey,  for  he  then  concluded  that 
Isaac  must  have  left  town.  In  a  little  while  he  was 
ready;  but  passed  the  night  in  further  search.  In 
going  to  and  from  the  house,  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
sensible  of  the  absence  of  his  wife,  or  so  much  as  to 
recollect  that  he  had  one. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  he  learned  that  one  of 
Beckford's  best  horses  was  missing.  In  an  instant 
he  was  mounted,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight  of  the  city. 
Yet  he  could  only  conjecture  Isaac's  route.  He  con 
tinued  his  pursuit  till  about  night-fall,  in  perfect  si 
lence,  and  with  his  mind  full  of  undefined  thoughts  of 
vengeance. 

He  was  riding  along  a  dangerous,  narrow  track, 
near  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  at  the  foot  of  which  was 
running  a  swift  current,  when,  just  as  he  was  turning 
the  corner  of  a  rock,  his  horse's  head  suddenly  cross 
ed  the  neck  of  another  horse,  held  by  a  man  who 
was  walking  cautiously  by  his  side.  Though  it  was 
growing  dark,  and  the  man  was  muffled,  Thornton 
knew  him  the  instant  his  eye  fell  upon  him;  and  spring 
ing  to  the  ground,  with  a  shout,  stood  full  before  Isaac. 
The  great  coat  fell  from  Isaac's  ashy  face.  He  could 
neither  speak  nor  move.  —  "  Havel  youthen?"  cried 
Thornton,  grappling  the  trembling  wretch  by  the 
throat,  and  lifting  him  upright  off  his  feet.  He  gave 
a  keen  glance,  for  an  instant,  down  the  precipice, 
without  speaking,  and  then  looked  doubtingly.  — ' '  No, 


TOM   THORNTON. 


no,  I  '11  not  take  the  dog's  life  so.  —  Hold!  there!  you 
curse  of  man,"  said  he,  drawing  out  his  pistols,  and 
handing  one  to  Isaac.  Isaac  put  out  his  hand  fo  take 
it,  without  seeming  to  be  conscious  of  what  was  to  be 
done.  "Stand  there,"  said  Thornton,  "  and  make 
sure  your  aim,  for  the  last  hour  of  one  or  both  of  us  is 
come." --Isaac's  hand  trembled  so  that  his  pistol  fell 
to  the  ground.  —  "  Have  ready,  man,  oryou  're  gone," 
screamed  Thornton,  frantic  with  rage.  Isaac  could 
not  move.  —  "  Down  then,"  cried  Thornton;  and  the 
fire  of  the  pistol  flashed  over  Isaac's  wild  eyes  and 
convulsed,  open  jaws.  His  arms  tossed  upward  in  the 
agony  of  terror  and  death,  and  he  fell  over  into  the 
stream.  His  horse,  rearing  with  fright,  plunged  with 
his  master. 

Thornton  looked  over  the  precipice.  Nothing  was 
to  be  seen  or  heard  but  the  whirl  and  rush  of  the  dark 
tide.  —  "  And  can  we  go  so  quickly  from  life  to  death  ? 
Why  then  should  a  man  live  to  misery?  " 

He  turned  slowly  away.  The  intense  longing  for 
revenge  was  satisfied,  and  he  was  now  left  feeble  as 
a  child.  He  mounted  his  horse  with  difficulty,  and 
turned  homeward,  his  brain  stunned  with  horror.  At 
last  his  mind  grew  slowly  more  distinct;  and  with  the 
recollection  of  what  had  past,  came  frightful  figures, 
which  fell  away,  then  suddenly  rose  again,  and  spread 
themselves  close  before  him.  He  pressed  his  eyeballs 
till  they  darted  fire,  then  passed  his  hand  quickly  be 
fore  his  face,  as  if  to  drive  away  what  he  saw;  but 
the  terrible  sight  returned  upon  him. 

He  delayed  entering  the  city,  till  about  dark  the 

next  day.     As  he  entered  it,  the  sudden  change  from 

the  quiet  of  the  country  to  the  noise,  the  quick  and 

various  movements  of  the  crowd,  the  broken  lights  and 

14 


210  TOM    THORNTON. 

shadows,  and  flare  of  lamps,  increased  the  confu 
sion  of  his  mind,  till  it  so  wandered,  that  he  scarcely 
knew  where  he  was  when  he  reached  his  own 
door. 

He  leaned  forward  on  his  horse  for  some  time, 
trying  to  regain  his  self-possession.  At  last,  looking 
up  at  the  house,  and  observing  it  quite  still  and  dark, 
the  thought  of  his  wife  crossed  him,  for  the  first  time. 
He  leaped  from  his  horse,  and  rushing  up  the  steps, 
rang  violently  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  cautiously 
by  one  he  had  never  seen  before;  but  such  was  the 
state  of  his  mind  that  he  paid  no  regard  to  the  circum 
stance.  Throwing  open  the  door  of  the  sitting  room, 
he  found  it  stripped  of  all  its  furniture.  He  hurried 
from  room  to  room;  all  was  bare  arid  deserted.  Then 
came  the  dreadful  truth  upon  him,  that  he  was  beg 
gared.  The  shock  nearly  unsettled  him. 

He  ran  toward  the  street  door,  scarcely  knowing 
whither  he  was  going,  when  he  was  arrested  by  a 
couple  of  men,  for  debt.  He  made  no  resistance, 
but  talking  incoherently  to  himself,  suffered  them  to 
carry  him  peaceably  to  prison.  He  laid  down  upon 
the  bed  that  was  furnished  him,  and  soon  fell  asleep 
as  quietly  as  if  in  his  own  house;  for  both  body  and 
mind  had  lost  their  sensibility,  through  violent  effort 
and  fatigue. 

The  sun  had  shot  into  his  prison  with  a  red  and 
dusty  ray,  before  he  awoke;  and  for  a  long  time  he 
could  not  recollect  where  he  was,  or  what  had  passed. 
"In  prison,  and  for  murder,  and  die  on  a  gallows!  " 

The  turning  of  the   key  roused  him  a  little. — 

"My  brain's  disordered."  —  A  man  handed  him  a 
letter,  and  left  the  room.  He  gazed  on  it  some  time, 
without  noticing  whose  hand  it  was.—  "  My  God,  my 


TOM    THORNTON.  211 

mother!  "  cried  he,  at  last;   "And  am  I  to  be  your 
murderer  too ! " 

Mrs.  Thornton  had  heard  from  old  Mr.  Beckford  of 
the  attachment  laid  upon  her  son's  property  immedi 
ately  after  his  leaving  the  city,  and  she  had  written  in 
a  state  of  mind  that  showed  she  could  not  much  lon 
ger  endure  her  sufferings.  Mr.  Beckford,  at  her 
earnest  request,  had  gone  to  her.  His  nephew  had 
left  town  unexpectedly;  but  the  only  suspicion  was 
that  he  had  fled  with  Mrs.  Thornton,  and  that  her 
husband  had  now  returned,  after  an  unsuccessful 
search.  » Thornton's  anguish  was  dreadful.  His 
mother  dangerously  ill,  and  made  so  by  him,  and  yet 
he  not  allowed  to  see  her.—  "  She  will  die,  believing 
that  I  cared  not  for  her;  and  yet  I  dare  not  let  her 
know  why  I  cannot  see  her." 

In  a  day  or  two  came  another  letter,  and  from  Mr. 
Beckford;  for  the  mother  was  too  feeble  to  write. 
Thornton's  impatience  was  now  almost  maddening. 
At  times  he  raved  like  a  maniac,  then  suddenly  sunk 
down  into  a  state  of  torpor,  till  the  remembrance  of 
his  father,  his  leaving  home,  the  misery  he  had 
brought  upon  himself  and  his  friends,  again  rushed 
upon  him.  Then  would  suddenly  appear  the  face  of 
Isaac,  as  he  saw  him  die;  arid  he  would  spring  up, 
and  stand  as  if  frozen  with  horror. 

This  was  not  to  endure  long.  Mr.  Beckford  wrote 
a  letter  to  him,  stating  that  his  release  was  procured, 
and  urging  him  to  set  off  immediately  by  the  convey 
ance  furnished;  for  that  his  mother,  unfortunately, 
had  heard  of  his  imprisonment,  and  that  the  shock 
had  been  a  violent  one  to  her,  in  her  weak  condi 
tion. 

Thornton  was  standing  in  a  state  of  apparent  insen- 


212  TOM    THORNTON. 

sibility,  when  the  keeper  entered  with  the  letter.  He 
did  not  notice  that  any  one  was  in  the  room;  but 
when  his  eye  fell  upon  it,  as  it  was  handed  to  him,  he 
seized  it  as  a  caged  lion  would  his  food.  He  ran  his 
fiery  eyes  over  it,  then  shook  it  from  his  hand  as  if  it 
had  been  a  snake  he  held. —  "  This  is  not  her  blood," 
muttered  he,  looking  closely  at  one  hand,  then  at  the 
other,  as  if  counting  the  spots.  "  No,  no,  this  is 
Isaac's,  I  know  it  well  —  my  old  school-fellow,  Isaac's 
blood."  He  stood  a  few  minutes  perfectly  still,  then 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if  trying  to  recol 
lect  himself. —  "Where  have  I  been?  —  Ha!  I  re 
member  now." 

"My  horse,  my  horse, —  is  he  ready?"  he  asked 
eagerly  of  the  servant,  who  was  entering  the  apart 
ment. 

"  At  the  gate,  Sir.     But  you  are  not  ready." 

"  True,  true!  "  And  he  suffered  the  man  to  equip 
him.  He  looked  at  himself  for  a  moment,  as  if  not 
knowing  for  what  purpose  he  was  so  dressed.  Then, 
as  the  thought  struck  him,  he  darted  out  of  the  prison, 
and  running  to  the  gate,  threw  himself  upon  the  horse, 
and  dashing  the  rowels  into  his  sides,  was  out  of  sight 
in  a  moment. 

There  was  now  but  one  purpose  in  his  mind,  and 
he  clung  to  it  with  a  spasmodic  grasp;  and  the  speed 
with  which  he  rode,  and  his  intense  eagerness,  nearly 
fired  his  brain.  His  eye  was  fixed  on  home  —  he 
saw  nothing  round  him — he  minded  not  hill  nor  hol 
low. 

The  horse's  nostrils  closed  and  dilated  fast,  and  the 
sweat  ran  down  his  hoofs,  when  Thornton  came  in 
sight  of  the  house.  Once  more  he  urged  him  on;  — 
and  then  he  reached  the  door.  He  tossed  the  reins 


TOM    THORNTON. 

on  the  neck  of  the  panting  beast,  and  throwing  him 
self  off,  was  in  an  instant  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 
The  chamber  door  was  shut.  As  he  flung  it  open, 
he  rushed  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed.  On  it  lay, 
with  a  white  sheet  over  it,  the  corpse  of  his  mother. 
His  hands  spread,  his  eyes  glared  wide,  and  his  hair 
stood  on  end.  One  shudder  passed  through  his  frame 
as  if  it  would  have  snapped  every  stretched  fibre. 
Tearing  with  a  grasp  the  hair  from  his  head,  he  gave 
a  shriek,  enough  to  have  awakened  the  dead,  and  ran, 
mad,  from  the  chamber. 

Old  Mr.  Beckford,  hearing  a  noise  over-head,  step 
ped  to  the  parlour  door,  and  saw  Thornton  coming 
down  stairs.  He  called  out.  Thornton  said  not  a  word, 
but  rushed  by  him,  the  hair  sticking  to  his  clinched 
fingers.  As  he  passed,  he  turned  his  eyes  on  the  old 
man  —  the  sockets  sent  out  nothing  but  flame.  The 
old  gentleman  followed,  trembling,  to  the  door,  and 
looked  out,  but  he  was  gone.  The  noise  came  and 
went  like  a  thunder-clap,  and  all  was  still  again. 

He  pushed  eagerly  on,  not  regarding  whither  he 
was  going ;  and  the  horse  took  the  same  course  Thorn 
ton  did  the  first  time  he  left  home. 

At  last  Thornton  struck  upon  the  heath,  and  rode 
onward  till  he  came  where  the  way  forked.  His  re 
collection  returned  in  an  instant.  He  checked  his 
horse  suddenly,  and  looked  over  the  track  he  had  once 
passed.  His  lip  quivered,  and  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes.  "  Ages  of  misery  have  rolled  over  me  since 
then,"  said  he,  looking  forward  upon  the  track  till  it 
was  lost  in  the  distance.  "  To  the  left,  to  the  left," 
cried  he  to  his  horse,  pressing  him  on;  "  for  that,  I 
then  said,  was  ill  omen,  and  now  it  suits  me." 

After  Mr.  Beckford  had  laid  the  unhappy  mother 


214  TOM    THORNTON. 

in  her  grave,  and  had  sent  in  all  directions  to  gain 
some  information  concerning  her  son,  he  went  to  the 
city  to  make  inquiries  about  his  nephew. 

The  horse  was  washed  up  near  the  precipice,  but 
Isaac's  body  was  never  found.  It  was  supposed  that 
the  animal  had  taken  fright,  and  had  fallen  with  his 
rider  into  the  stream. 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  soon  heard  of  as  appearing  the 
dashing  mistress  of  a  young  man  in  a  distant  city. 
Her  extravagance  and  violent  temper  caused  frequent 
changes  in  this  sort  of  connexion,  and  she  soon  sank 
down  into  the  lowest  class  of  females  of  her  order,  and 
died  as  they  die. 

As  no  account  of  Thornton  could  be  gained,  it  was 
conjectured  that  he  had  either  destroyed  himself,  or 
had  wandered  away  a  maniac.  It  was  autumn  when 
he  disappeared;  the  winter  had  set  in  stormy  and 
cold,  and  some  supposed  he  might  have  perished. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  day,  towards  the  close  of 
spring,  as  the  widow  Wentworth  was  taking  care  of 
a  brood  of  chickens  just  hatched,  a  man,  in  a  fisher's 
garb,  drove  up  to  her  door.  He  was  seated  in  a  light 
horse-cart,  old  and  shattered,  and  drawn  by  a  small, 
lean  horse.  He  inquired  whether  she  could  inform 
him  where  lived  a  woman  of  the  name  of  Wentworth. 

"It  is  for  me  you  are  looking,  I  suppose,  good  man. 
What  is  your  will?" 

"  I  would  ask  you  to  give  me  a  morsel,"  said  he, 
getting  down  from  his  cart,  "  before  I  tell  my  errand; 
for  I  have  rode  ever  since  daybreak,  and  it  has  been 
but  a  chilly  morning." 

After  finishing  his  meal,  he  began  as  follows:  — 
"  There  was  a  strange  young  man  made  his  appear 
ance  in  our  parts  last  Autumn;  and  he  has  been  there- 


TOM    THORNTON.  215 

abouts  up  to  this  time.  It  's  clear  that  he  's  not  alto 
gether  right  here,"  said  the  man,  touching  his  fore 
head;  "but  then  he  would  harm  nobody,  and  kept 
wandering  about  all  alone;  and  so  we  never  troubled 
him." 

"  Well,  what  of  him?  "  said  the  old  woman  eager 
ly;  —  for  she  immediately  conjectured  who  it  might  be. 

"I  fear  he's  dying,"  said  the  man.  "  He  was 
not  seen  all  along  shore  for  many  days;  and  some  of 
us  went  to  his  hut;  and  there  he  was  lying,  looking 
like  one  of  the  dead.  But  he  was  sensible  enough 
then,  and  begged  that  we  would  find  a  widow  of  the 
name  of  Wentworth,  (  who  I  thought  from  his  account 
must  live  hereabouts,)  and  bring  her  to  him  before 
he  died;  '  for,'  said  he,  '  she  is  the  only  one  of  all  the 
living  that  has  any  love  for  me.' ' 

"  And  did  he  tell  his  name?  " 

"No,"  said  the  man.  "We  asked  him;  but  he 
said  it  was  no  matter,  and  that  you  would  remember 
him  to  whom  you  told  your  story,  and  talked  so  holily 
when  the  sun  was  going  down.  '  She  '11  not  have  for 
gotten  it, '  he  said,  '  as  I  did,  when  I  most  needed  it." : 

"And  think  you  he's  dying?"  asked  she.  — "It 
matters  not,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"  There  must  be  life  in  him  yet,"  replied  the  fisher. 

"  I  saw  the  tear  glisten  in  his  eye,"  she  continued 
to  herself,  "*when  I  told  him  of  Sally;  and  I  have 
talked  with  him  by  her  grave;  and  I  will  lay  him  in 
the  ground,  too,  when  he  dies.  —  Which  way,  and 
how  far  is  it  to  the  place,  good  man?  " 

"  A  dozen  miles,  or  so,  due  east,  as  I  guess." 

"  How  am  I  to  get  there  and  back? "  asked  she. 

"  Even  with  me,"  he  "answered;  "  for  this  is  the 
only  coach  in  all  our  neck  of  land,  and  this  the  only 


216  TOM    THORNTON". 

steed,  ragged  as  he  looks,   except  the  poor  young 
man's;  and  he  's  in  no  better  condition  now." 

The  old  woman  having  found  a  friend  to  take  charge 
of  her  house,  began  her  journey. 

"  We  were  all  out  a  fishing,  except  our  old  woman," 
said  the  man,  as  they  rode  along.  "  When  we  got 
back,  she  told  us  that  a  young  man,  a  gentleman,  and 
well  dressed,  had  been  to  the  hut  two  or  three  times 
for  food,  and  that  he  always  took  it  away  with  him. 
She  would  not  receive  his  money,  for  he  appeared 
not  to  be  in  his  right  mind.  But  he  never  failed  leav 
ing  some  on  the  table.  Whether  or  not  he  knew  of 
our  return,  I  can't  say;  but  we  saw  nothing  of  him, 
till  one  day,  passing  an  old  hut  which  we  had  left  for 
a  better,  we  spied  him  sitting  at  the  door,  and  his 
horse  feeding  on  the  coarse  grass  near  it.  As  soon 
as  he  discovered  us,  he  went  in,  and  he  ever  shunned 
us.  We  have  seen  him  looking  for  shellfish  among 
the  rocks,  and  carrying  home  wreck-wood  for  firing. 
How  he  kept  himself  warm  through  the  nights  of 
winter,  I  cannot  tell.  But  for  aught  we  could  find, 
dried  seaweed  must  have  been  his  bedding.  We  have 
sometimes  left  food  near  his  hut;  and  his  horse  used 
now  and  then  to  share  the  scant  fare  of  this  pony 
here;  for  I  could  not  but  pity  him,  though  a  beast, 
when  the  sleet  drove  sharp  against  him." 

As  they  drew  near  the  shore  a  heavy  sea-fog  was 
coming  in.  In  a  few  minutes  the  sun  was  hid,  and 
the  damp  stood  on  the  nag's  long,  shaggy  coat,  like 
rain-drops.  They  soon  heard  the  low  growl  of  the 
sea;  and  turning  a  high  point  of  land,  they  saw  near 
them  multitudes  of  breakers,  foaming  and  roaring, 
and  flinging  themselves  ashore,  like  sea-monsters 
after  their  prey. 


TOM    THORNTON.  217 

They  were  descending  slowly  through  the  heavy 
sands  to  the  beach,  when  they  heard  two  persons  calling 
to  each  other  in  a  sharp,  high  key.  The  voices  sounded 
as  at  a  great  distance;  but  in  a  moment,  they  saw 
just  ahead  of  them,  and  coming  towards  them,  out  of 
the  spray  and  mist,  a  man,  in  a  sailor's  jacket,  and  a 
woman  in  one  of  the  same,  with  a  man's  hat  fastened 
under  her  chin  by  a  red  handkerchief.  A  startling, 
mysterious  feeling  passed  over  the  old  woman,  as  if 
those  she  saw  were  something  more  than  human,  and 
were  given  another  nature  to  be  dwellers  in  the  sea. 

"  Is  there  life  in  him?  "  cried  her  guide,  as  they 
passed.  —  "  Scant  alive,"  called  out  the  woman.  The 
old  widow  looked  back.  They  were  passing  into  the 
mist,  and  were  instantly  lost  sight  of. 

They  had  not  ridden  far  along  the  beach,  before  the 
fog  began  to  break  away,  and  the  sea  and  sand  flash 
ed  upon  them  with  a  blinding  brightness.  They  drag 
ged  on  a  mile  or  two  further,  when  the  sky  became 
gloomy,  and  the  wind  began  to  rise. 

"  And  is  all  as  desolate  as  this?  "  asked  the 
old  woman,  looking  over  the  shapeless  sand-hills, 
which  stretched  away,  one  behind  another,  without 
end,  and  seeming  as  if  heaved  up  and  washed  by  the 
sea,  then  left  bare  to  sight. 

"  There  is  little  that  's  better,"  answered  the  man. 

"  And  have  you  no  other  growth  than  this  yellowish, 
reedy  grass,  that  spears  up  so  scantily  out  of  these 
sand-hills?" 

"  'Tis  not  so  ill  a  sight  to  us,  neither,  who  have 
nothing  greener,"  answered  the  man,  a  little  hurt. 
' '  And  there 's  a  bright  red  berry  that  looks  gay  enough 
amongst  it.  But  peace,"  said  he,  "  for  here  's  the, 
dwelling  of  the  dying  man," 


218  TOM    THORNTON. 

The  building  was  of  rough  boards,  some  of  which 
hung  loose  and  creaking  in  the  wind.  It  was  turned 
almost  black,  except  on  the  side  towards  the  sea, 
which  shone  with  a  grayish  crust;  and  a  corner  of  a 
decayed  chimney  was  seen  just  above  the  roof.  On 
the  ridge  of  one  of  the  sand-hills  by  the  house,  stood, 
with  his  drooping  head  from  them,  the  starved,  sharp- 
boned  horse,  the  sand  whirling  round  him  like  drifting 
snow.  —  "  Poor  fellow,"  said  the  man;  "  when  I  first 
saw  him,  he  was  full  of  metal,  and  snuffed  the  air  and 
looked  with  pricked  ears  and  wild  eye  out  upon  the 
sea,  as  if  he  would  bound  over  it." 

The  old  woman  opened  the  door  cautiously.  A 
gray-headed  man  was  sitting  by  a  sort  of  crib  of 
rough  boards,  in  which  lay  Thomas  Thornton,  his 
eyes  closed,  his  cheek  hollow  and  pale,  and  his  mouth 
relaxed  and  open. 

"Is  this  he,"  said  she  to  herself,  as  she  looked 
upon  him,  "of  the  burning  eye  and  hot  cheek  and 
firm  set  mouth,  of  fiery  and  untamed  passions?  I  did 
not  look  to  see  you  come  to  such  an  end,  much  as  I 
feared  for  you.  —  May  your  sufferings  here  be  some 
atonement  for  your  sins.  —  All  was  not  evil  in  you. 
Many  have  died  happier  than  you,  who  had  less  of 
good  in  them;  and  have  left  a  better  name  behind 
them  than  you  will  leave."  —  A  tear  dropped  from 
her  on  his  forehead.  He  opened  his  eyes  sleepily 
upon  her.  The  colour  came  to  his  cheek;  he  lifted 
his  hand  to  hers  with  a  weak  motion,  and  looked  to 
wards  the  old  man.  —  "  Leave  us  alone  a  little  while," 
said  the  widow. 

He  spoke.  "I  have  been  a  sinful  man,"  he  said 
in  a  faint,  broken  voice.  He  paused,  and  his  look  be 
came  wild.  —  "My  father,  —  and  Isaac,  Isaac — he 


TOM    THORNTON.  219 

fell  — and  my  mother  —  did  I  kill  them  all?"  His 
eye  appeared  to  fasten  on  an  object  in  the  distance. 
He  then  closed  his  lids  hard,  as  if  trying  to  shut  out 
something  frightful. 

"  What  looked  you  at?"  asked  the  widow. 

"  O,  you  could  not  see  her.  She  is  seen  of  none 
but  me.  I  've  looked  upon  the  sight  a  thousand  times. 
I  've  seen  her  shrouded  body  rising  and  falling  with 
the  waves,  stretched  out  as  it  was  on  her  death-bed; 
and  it  has  bent  not,  and  it  has  floated  nearer  and  nearer 
to  me,  till  I  could  look  no  longer.  —  And  there,  too,  has 
she  stood  for  hours  on  that  small  white  rock  yonder, 
that  rises  out  ot  the  sea,"  said  he,  trying  eagerly 
to  raise  himself,  and  look  out  towards  it.  "  Yes, 
there  has  she  stood  beckoning  me  when  the  sun  beat 
upon  it;  and  I  was  made  to  look  on  it  till  its  glare 
turned  all  around  me  black.  I  've  tried  to  rush  into 
the  sea  to  her,  though  the  waves  ran  so  heavy  be 
tween  us;  but  I  was  held  back  till  the  sweat  streamed 
down  my  body,  and  I  fell  on  the  sand." — He  gasped 
for  breath,  and  lay  panting.  At  last  he  recovered  a 
little;  and  opening  his  eyes,  looked  slowly  about  him. 
His  lips  moved.  The  old  woman  bent  over  him,  and 
heard  him  breathe  out,  "  God  forgive  my  sins." 

"  God  will  forgive  the  repentant,  however  wicked 
they  have  been,"  said  the  widow.  He  gave  a  look 
of  hope.  —  I  've  asked  it  of  Him  day  and  night,  when 
I  had  my  mind;  I've  prayed  to  Him,  stretched  on 
the  bare,  cold  rocks,  and  when  I  dared  not  look  up. 
Will  not  you  pray  for  me?  Will  none  of  the  good 
pray  for  me  ?  " 

She  knelt  down  by  him,  with  her  hands  clasped, 
and  looking  upward.  There  was  an  agony  of  soul 
for  a  moment  —  she  could  not  speak.  The  tears 


220  TOM    THORNTON. 

rolled  down  her  wrinkled  cheeks,  and,  then,  she  prayed 
aloud.  And  from  the  shore  went  up  a  prayer  fervent 
and  holy  as  ever  ascended  from  the  house  of  God. 
And  the  dying  man  prayed  with  her,  in  the  spirit.  She 
ended,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  forehead,  said  in  a 
solemn  voice,  "My  son,  I  trust  there  is  mercy  for 
you  with  God." 

He  looked  upward  and  tried  to  clasp  his  hands.  It 
was  his  last  effort,  and  he  sunk  away  with  a  counte 
nance  as  placid,  as  if  falling  into  a  gentle  sleep. 

The  old  widow  stood  for  a  few  minutes  gazing  on 
the  lifeless  body.  At  last  she  said  to  herself,  without 
turning  away,  —  "  He  must  not  lie  here,  as  an  out 
cast  ;  for  the  sands  will  drive  over  him,  and  there  will  be 
no  mark  where  he  rests.  I  will  take  him  with  me, 
and  lay  him  by  the  stream  near  my  home.  And  when 
I  die,  I  will  be  gathered  with  him  and  with  my  child 
to  the  same  grave." 


EDWARD    AND    MARY. 


"  Oh,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  j 
Which  now  shews  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away." 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona, 

—  "  why,  man,  she  is  mine  own  j 
And  I  as  rich,  in  having  such  a  jewel, 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold." 

Same. 


To  love  deeply  and  to  believe  our  love  returned, 
and  yet  to  be  sensible  that  we  should  not  make  our 
love  known,  is  one  of  the  hardest  trials  a  man  can 
undergo.  It  asks  the  more  of  us,  because  the  passion 
is  the  most  secret  in  our  natures.  All  sympathy  is 
distasteful  except  that  of  one  being,  and  that,  in  such 
a  case,  we  must  deny  ourselves.  In  our  sorrow  at 
the  loss  of  friends,  if  we  shun  direct  and  proffered  con 
solations,  we  love  the  assuagings  which  another's  pity 
administers  to  us,  in  the  gentle  tones,  mild  manners, 
kind  looks,  and  nameless  little  notices  which  happen 
in  the  numberless  affairs  of  daily  life.  But  the  man 
that  loves  and  is  unhappy,  starts  at  a  soothing  voice 
as  if  he  were  betrayed;  eyes  turned  in  affectionate 
regard  upon  him,  seem  to  search  his  heart;  his  way  is 


222  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

not  in  the  path  of  other  men,  and  his  suffering  must  be 
borne  unseen  and  alone. 

This  severance  from  the  world,  this  desertion  of 
intercourse  with  man,  gives  a  bitterness  to  grief 
greater  than  any  evil  life  shares  in,  and  yet  here,  we 
drink  it  of  ourselves;  we  make  our  own  solitude,  root 
up  the  flowers  in  it,  and  watch  them  as  they  wither; 
we  lay  it  bare  of  beauty  and  make  it  empty  of  life, 
and  then  feel  as  if  others  had  spoiled  us  and  left  us  to 
perish.  Relief  from  troubles  may  be  found  in  society 
and  employment;  but  unprosperous  love  goes  every 
where  with  a  man;  his  thoughts  are  forever  upon  it; 
it  is  in  him  and  around  him  like  the  air,  breaking  his 
night-rest,  and  causing  him  to  hide  himself  from  the 
morning  light.  The  music  of  the  open  sky  sings  a 
dirge  over  his  joys,  and  the  strong  trees  of  the  forest 
droop  over  the  grave  of  all  he  held  dear. 

Thwarted  love  is  more  romantic  than  even  that 
which  is  blessed;  the  imagination  grows  forgetive,  and 
the  mind  idles,  in  its  melancholy,  among  fantastic 
shapes;  all  it  hears  or  sees  is  turned  to  its  own  uses, 
taking  new  forms  and  new  relations,  and  multiplying 
without  end;  and  it  wanders  off  amongst  its  own 
creations,  which  crowd  thicker  round  it  the  farther  it 
goes,  till  it  loses  sight  of  the  world,  and  becomes 
bewildered  in  the  many  and  uneven  paths  that  itself 
had  trodden  out. 

EDWARD  SHIRLEY  was  of  a  grave  cast  of  charac 
ter,  much  absorbed  in  his  own  feelings,  yet  with  a 
strong  affection  for  the  few  whom  his  reserve,  and 
what  some  would  call  his  prejudices,  allowed  him  to 
take  as  intimates.  He  had  read  so  much  of  wrong, 
and  had  learned  to  think  that  there  was  so  little  of 
true  delicacy  and  deep  and  enduring  love  amongst 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  223 

men  to  answer  to  what  he  felt  within  himself,  that  he 
was  sensible  of  something  like  a  distaste  for  the  world 
at  large.  This  was  not  a  cause  of  triumph,  but  of 
melancholy  to  him,  and  an  expression  of  mild  delight 
was  visible  in  his  countenance  whenever  he  saw  at  his 
father's  a  stranger  of  an  open  and  benevolent  aspect. 
His  feelings  were  apt  to  fasten  upon  that  which 
could  not  break  upon  his  train  of  silent  thought ;  and 
they  grew  more  and  more  into  an  attachment  to  inan 
imate  objects  and  to  brutes.  He  was  forever  in  the 
fields;  the  beauties  of  nature  made  his  chief  delight; 
he  was  open  to  their  purifying  influences;  and  the  in 
nocence  which  God  seemed  to  have  stamped  upon 
them,  was  almost  religion  to  him. 

But  we  are  made  for  other  purposes  than  to  have 
our  interests  begin  and  end  in  these;  and  he  who  has 
let  his  affections  grow  where  the  brooks  run  and  the 
buds  are  opening  to  the  sun,  will  find  at  last  that  the 
love  of  some  human  being  will  twine  the  closer  be 
cause  of  it  about  his  heart,  and  other  joys  and  sorrows 
than  those  he  had  fostered  under  the  blue  sky,  enter 
the  deeper  into  his  soul. 

It  has  been  said  that  no  man  of  genius  or  sentiment 
ever  lived  to  twenty  years,  without  being  in  love.  It 
is  in  some  sense  true ;  for  if  he  does  not  find  a  living 
idol,  he  will  make  one  to  himself,  and  be  a  constant 
and  fervent  worshipper  of  that.  When  Edward  was 
asked  how  it  happened  that  such  a  romantic  youth  as 
he  had  never  been  in  love,  he  answered,  "  I  have 
been  so,  and  for  a  long  time,  but  my  mistress  is  here, 
in  the  brain,  and  it  is  the  only  one  I  shall  ever  make 
knee  to;  for,"  he  added,  "the  only  woman  that  I 
could  love,  must  come  so  nigh  in  all  high  qualities  to 
her  who  lives  in  my  imagination,  that  did  she  really 


EDWARD    AND    MARY. 


live,  she  would  scarcely  deign  to  look  upon  such  a 
thing  as  I  am;  so,  as  for  women,  I  think  not  of  them." 
—  This  he  said  with  a  smile,  but  with  a  heavy  heart; 
for  there  were  strong  cravings  of  the  affections,  and 
he  felt  daily  more  and  more  the  inanity  of  life.  As 
he  patted  the  head  of  his  brother's  boy,  he  said  to 
himself,  "  Am  I  never  to  be  a  father?  And  shall  I 
die,  and  leave  no  child  to  bless  me?  Shall  I  go  out 
of  the  world  with  no  one  of  all  the  living  to  feel  a 
peculiar  grief  for  me?"  The  time,  however,  was  at 
hand,  when  Edward  was  to  learn  that  real  love  was  a 
more  serious  thing  than  that  love  which  the  imagina 
tion  conjures  up. 

Mrs.  Aston,  with  her  daughter  Mary,  had  lately 
taken  a  small  house  near  the  estate  of  Edward's  father. 
She  was  left  with  an  income  so  small  as  to  require  of 
her  the  most  simple  mode  of  life  ;  and  her  grief  at  the 
death  of  her  husband  had  so  absorbed  every  other 
feeling,  as  to  render  this  no  hardship  to  her. 

The  father  of  Mr.  Aston  left  a  good  estate,  but  a 
great  number  of  children.  The  son  married  young, 
during  his  father's  life,  with  no  definite  views  of  the 
means  of  supporting  a  family.  He  had  been  used  to 
plenty  and  elegance  at  home,  and  like  most  young  men, 
never  once  considered  how  small  an  estate  a  division 
of  his  father's  property  would  leave  him. 

Soon  after  his  father's  death,  he  found  that  his 
estate  was  fast  diminishing,  while  he  had  a  wife  and 
children  to  support.  Being  but  little  acquainted  with 
the  world,  his  plans  were  badly  laid  and  worse  man 
aged  ;  poverty  was  eating  in  upon  him,  not  rapidly, 
but  as  surely  and  fatally  as  the  sea  gains  upon  the 
shore;  and  his  spirits  began  forsaking  him  almost  as 
fast  as  his  acquaintances  and  friends.  Though  he 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  225 

had  never  rested  his  happiness  upon  society  at  large, 
nor  estimated  himself  by  its  opinions,  yet  remembered 
courtesies,  taken  with  present  neglect,  went  to  his  heart, 
when  he  thought  of  his  wife  and  children,  and  looked 
forward  to  what  awaited  them.  He  grew  languid  in 
body,  and  brooded  over  immediate  and  dreaded  evils, 
till  a  gloom  settled  down  upon  his  mind,  and  his  faculties 
seemed  falling  into  a  kind  of  uneasy  sleep.  He  was 
roused  from  this  for  a  short  time  by  the  last  feeble 
and  irregular  efforts  of  worn  out  nature.  As  he  sat 
in  the  easy  chair  by  his  bed,  a  few  days  before  his 
death,  there  was  a  tranquillity  in  his  voice  and  manner, 
and  a  benign  composure  in  his  countenance,  as  if 
the  inspiring  light  of  the  world  to  which  he  was  going, 
had  already  entered  into  his  soul.  As  his  wife  gave 
him  his  cordial,— "  Heaven,"  he  said,  "  seems  to 
have  ordained  it  in  mercy  to  those  we  love,  that  we 
should  need  their  care  so  much,  and  ask  of  them  so 
many  attentions  in  our  last  hours.  It  breaks  the 
thought  that  would  otherwise  fasten  wholly  on  the  loss 
they  must  soon  bear;  and  their  affliction  is  a  little 
soothed,  so  long  as  they  administer  good  and  ease 
to  those  who  are  about  to  die.  And  I  feel,"  he 
added,  "  how  much,  as  the  last  and  true  tokens  of 
love,  they  take  from  the  bitterness  of  the  separation 
which  death  makes  sooner  or  later  between  us  all.'5 

"Why  do  you  talk  thus,  Alfred?"  said  his  wife. 
'  You  have  been  much  stronger  for  two  days  past. 
Hopes  of  better  years  than  those  gone,  will  be  medi 
cine  to  you.  And  why  should  you  not  hope  ?  A  change 
may  come  for  you  as  well  as  others;  and  those  who 
knew  your  father  may  do  a  kind  office  to  his  son,  be 
it  but  in  honour  of  his  memory." 

:c  There  is  but  one  change  for  me,  my  love,"  he  re- 
15 


226  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

plied;  "  and  as  to  the  dead,  their  good  deeds  go  out 
of  the  memory  of  this  world,  as  surely  as  they  them 
selves  enter  into  another.  The  concerns  of  the  world 
are  ever  shifting  —  its  interests  and  relations;  and  he 
who  was  in  regard  yesterday,  will  not  be  thought  of 
to-morrow.  But  though  there  is  too  much  of  forget- 
fulness  and  selfishness  amongst  men,  I  would  not 
blame  them  now,  nor  question  the  providence  of  God, 
which  out  of  this  evil  brings  good,  by  making  men  ac 
tive  and  considerate  of  ends.  Let  me  rather  take 
blame  to  myself;  for  though  it  may  be  from  a  defect  of 
nature  in  me,  and  not  from  any  want  of  disposition  or 
endeavour,  that  my  condition  in  life  has  been  a  hard 
one,  yet  I  might  have  known  my  weakness,  and  have 
avoided  a  responsibility  I  could  not  answer.  To  love 
you  as  I  have  done  from  the  time  I  first  saw  you,  to 
this  my  last  hour,  has  surely  been  no  crime  in  me,  and 
if  making  that  love  known  to  you  and  shutting  my 
eyes  on  those  consequences  I  should  have  foreseen, 
has  been  a  fault  in  me,  the  sufferings  I  have  undergone 
will,  I  trust,  be  some  atonement  for  it. 

"  My  children,"  said  he,  turning  towards  them, 
"beware  lest  the  ingenuity  of  men  lead  you  to  act 
against  what  you  feel  to  be  a  virtuous  impulse,  for 
there  is  almost  as  much  error  of  the  head  as  of  the  heart 
in  man.  At  the  same  time,  do  not  trust  wholly  to  what 
seem  innocent  impulses,  especially  when  they  fall  in 
with  your  desires,  for  what  is  in  itself  innocent  may 
become  evil  from  the  relation  it  may  hold  to  others; 
so  that  it  is  not  enough  to  consider  it  abstractly,  but 
to  cast  about  and  ask  yourselves  what  may  be  its  ef 
fect  in  new  connexions  now  and  in  future.  Guide  in 
this  way  your  virtues  by  your  wisdom,  and  you  will 
have  much  of  deep  enjoyment  now,  and  little  to  re 
pent  of  hereafter." 


ETVWARD    AND    MARY.  227 

Though  this  was  a  scene  of  severe  grief,  (for  Mr. 
Aston  was  loved  by  his  wife  and  children  with  an  ar 
dour  and  sincerity  which  few  deserve  or  enjoy,)  yet  the 
composure  of  his  manner  tranquillized  them,  and  their 
tears  fell  in  silence. 

:'  I  have  talked  too  much,  and  must  lie  down." 
They  helped  him  to  his  bed;  and  he  soon  fell  into  a 
gentle  sleep,  with  his  wife's  hand  in  his,  and  never 
waked  again. 

As  soon  as  the  painful  concerns  following  Mr.  As- 
ton's  death  were  closed,  his  widow  moved  to  the  house 
I  have  spoken  of.  It  was  a  place  not  without  its  many 
recollections  to  her,  for  she  had  been  often  in  it  when 
a  child,  and  had  frequently  met  Mr.  Aston  there  when 
he  was  a  cheerful  young  man. 

Entering  a  dwelling  in  which  we  had  lived  many 
years  ago,  brings  together  the  past  and  present  with 
a  distinctness  nothing  else  can.  It  is  always  with 
some  tinge  of  melancholy,  even  to  those  who  have 
prospered  in  the  world;  for  let  that  world  have  gone 
with  us  as  well  as  it  may,  more"  of  disappointments 
and  troubles,  than  of  pleasures  come  to  our  minds  at 
such  a  time;  and  those  pleasures  which  are  remem 
bered  as  having  happened  in  the  spot  we  stand  on,  are 
thought  of,  not  as  so  many  which  we  had  enjoyed,  but 
as  so  many  lost  to  us  forever.  The  trial  was  a  hard  one 
indeed  to  Mrs.  Aston.  When  left  alone,  and  when  the 
events  and  feelings  of  many  years  came  altogether  to 
her  mind,  in  the  agony  of  nature  she  uttered  a  sorrow 
ful  cry.  She  had  lived  to  see  her  full  hopes  blasted;  the 
misery  of  anxiety  had  mingled  with  her  love;  and  the 
man  who  had  made,  as  it  were,  her  existence,  and  who 
might,  she  thought,  have  led  a  happy  life  had  he  never 
known  her,  had  died  of  a  broken  heart.  —  "  I  could 


228  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

have  borne  your  death,  Alfred,  had  some  common 
sickness  taken  you  from  me.  I  could  have  lived  for 
our  children;  and  the  memory  of  you  would  have  been 
an  angel  of  comfort  to  me.  But  to  know  that  a  wasting 
sorrow  of  the  mind  made  life  comfortless  to  you  who 
had  a  heart  for  its  best  joys,  and  cut  you  off  so  soon; — 
how  can  I  bear  it!  O,  look  down  upon  me,  and  teach 
me  how  !  " 

The  affectionate  manners  and  constant  kind  atten 
tions  of  her  eldest  daughter,  Mary,  at  last  touched  her 
mother's  heart,  roused  her  from  her  abstracted  grief, 
and  made  her  once  more  sensible  that  there  were  living 
beings  for  her  to  love,  and  towards  whom  she  had 
many  duties  to  fulfil. 

"  Have  you  seen  your  new  neighbours  ?  "  said  Har 
riet  Shirley  one  day  to  her  brother. 

"  They  were  at  Church  last  Sunday,  but  so  veiled 
that  I  could  not  see  their  faces.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  should  hardly  dare  see  the  daughter's.  Her  form 
is  the  finest  I  ever  beheld;  and  I  am  sure  there  was 
never  so  much  beauty  of  movement  without  a  mind 
answering  to  it." 

cc  There  's  a  scrap  of  your  theory  again.  Upon  my 
Word,  Edward,  you  will  go  mad  in  love  theoretically." 

"  I  am  half  afraid  of  it  myself,  for  in  my  walks  I 
have  seen  her  more  than  once  floating  before  me  in 
the  sunbeams." 

"  O,  shame  on  you,  for  a  lover!  Sunbeams,  in 
deed!  Moonlight,  my  dear  brother  —  you  must  set 
out  with  melancholy  and  moonlight,  or  you  will  never 
come  to  a  proper  end.  That  half-drawn  black  veil 
against  a  pale  forehead!  How  interesting!  And  all 
over  black,  indeed — the  very  Black  Nun  herself. 
How  could  you  think  of  throwing  any  thing  less  sof 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  229 

than  moonbeams  over  such  a  form?  Now  don't  give 
me  that  look  of  grave  reproof.  If  I  do  trifle  out  of 
season,  it  is  not  that  I  do  not  feel." 

"  Heedlessness  often  causes  as  much  pain  as  bad 
intention,  Harriet;  and  think  of  it  as  you  may,  will 
more  or  less  harden  the  heart  of  those  who  are  guilty 
of  it.  I  know  you  are  a  good  girl,  for  all  your  rattle, 
and  much  better  than  you  seem.  But  there  is  no  need 
child,  of  playing  the  '  hypocrite  reversed,' when  there 
are  hardly  examples  enough  of  goodness  to  keep  virtue 
in  countenance." 

"You  are  right,  Edward,  you  are  always  right; 
and  I  will  try  to  follow  your  advice;  but  you  must  first 
follow  mine.  I  am  a  generous-hearted  girl,  and  will 
give  it  you  without  your  asking.  By  a  mere  glimpse 
of  this  Miss  Aston,  she  has  gotten  into  your  imagina 
tion;  and  unless  in  good  time  you  see  something  more 
ofwhat  you  would  call  the  humdrum  reality,  you  will 
be  so  far  gone  in  love  shortly,  that  when  you  do  at 
last  meet  with  her,  you  will  be  lost,  to  a  certainty. 
So,  before  it  is  too  late,  corne  along  with  me,  and  rid 
yourself  of  your  fairy  vision." 

They  turned  up  the  narrow,  grassy  lane  which  led 
to  Mrs.  Aston's  house.  It  was  bounded  by  an  old 
irregular  stone-fence,  over  which  ran  a  few  straggling 
wild  vines,  while  the  setting  sun  was  pouring  its  rich 
light  upon  the  yellow,  green,  and  stone-coloured  mosses 
which  coated  over  the  wall.  The  branches  of  the 
cedars,  under  which  they  were  walking,  lifted  and  fell 
with  a  fanning  motion  to  the  night  breeze,  and  here 
and  there  a  bird  was  singing  her  farewell  to  the  sun, 
as  she  swung  upon  them.  A  turn  in  the  lane  brought 
them  opposite  the  house.  It  was  an  old  structure, 
projecting  in  front  over  the  basement  story,  and  run- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

ning  up  from  the  coving  into  three  sharp  triangles, 
looking  as  bold  and  fantastic  as  the  general  officers 
in  the  old  prints  of  the  Duke  of  Maryborough's  bat 
tles.  Edward  felt  as  much  reverence  for  the  edifice, 
as  he  would  have  done  for  one  of  those  venerable  old 
gentlemen  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  had  he  made  his 
appearance. 

Mary  Aston  did  not  see  Edward  and  his  sister,  as 
she  was  intent  upon  training  up  a  honey-suckle  to  one 
of  the  carved  urns  pendent  from  the  projection  of  the 
house.  Edward  stopped  to  watch  for  a  moment  her 
delicate  white  fingers,  as  they  moved  among  the 
leaves  and  flowers.  Her  mother  was  sitting  in  the 
porch,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  shaggy  house  dog, 
which  was  once  her  husband's.  The  dog  was  lying 
upon  the  step,  with  his  neck  stretched  out  over  the 
door-sill,  and  resting  partly  on  his  mistress'  feet.  He 
was  the  first  to  notice  the  visiters.  He  turned  round 
his  head,  got  up  and  shook  himself  very  deliberately, 
and  then  looked  up  in  his  mistress'  face,  as  if  asking 
how  he  was  to  receive  the  new  comers. 

"Mary,"  said  her  mother,  rising.  —  Mary  looked 
round,  and  then  came  forward  a  little.  Harriet  intro 
duced  herself  and  brother  with  her  wonted  easy  cheer 
fulness,  tempered  by  the  situation  of  the  strangers. 
She  apologized  for  having  put  off  her  call  so  long,  by 
saying  it  was  from  the  hope  that  her  mother  would 
before  then  have  been  well  enough  to  have  accom 
panied  her. 

"  I  heard  that  your  mother  was  not  well;  and  do 
not  know  but  that  I  should  have  waved  ceremony, 
and  called  in  to  see  her,  when  walking  out  with  Mary 
some  evening;  for  I  remember  having  met  her  in  this 
very  house;  and  I  believe  we  liked  each  other  well 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  231 

at  the  time.  There  are  so  few  early  connexions  left 
to  us  late  in  life,  that  I  should  not  willingly  give  up 
those  I  could  retain."  This  was  a  general  reflection, 
but  brought  with  it  the  remembrance  of  her  husband; 
and  the  momentary  effort  in  overcoming  her  feelings 
showed  itself  in  her  countenance. 

"Will  you  walk  into  the  house?"  said  Mary  to 
Harriet  and  her  brother,  "  or  should  you  like  better 
a  seat  here  in  the  open  air  this  bright  evening?" 
"  For  my  part,"  said  Edward,  taking  hold  of  the 
broken  string  around  which  the  honey-suckle  had 
wound  itself,  "  as  I  have  interrupted  you  in  your 
work,  I  will  now  help  you  finish  it,  if  you  will  permit 
me."  There  was  a  delicate  respect  in  Edward's 
manner,  which  gave  an  air  of  kindness  and  attention 
to  what  in  others  would  have  looked  like  mere 
officiousness.  Besides,  he  had  a  tact  for  character, 
which  kept  him  from  any  show  of  sudden  intimacy, 
where  it  would  not  be  understood  and  frankly  received. 
It  is  said  that  sagacious  dogs  possess  the  same 
quality.  It  was  certainly  so  with  Argus;  for  what 
with  his  fawning,  and  the  fair  hands  of  Mary  kindly 
saving  the  plant  from  harm,  Edward  scarcely  knew 
what  he  was  about.  He  began  with  tying  the  bow  of 
the  knot  first  —  it  slipt,  and  the  vine  fell  upon  Mary's 
arms.  This  was  not  making  the  matter  any  better, 
and  in  the  second  attempt  the  knot  was  tied  in  the 
wrong  place. 

"  The  dog  is  troublesome,"  said  Mary.  "  Get  you 
out  of  the  way,  Argus." 

"  'T  is  all  my  awkwardness,  Miss  Aston.  You 
must  not  drive  Argus  away.  It  makes  me  better 
pleased  with  myself  to  be  liked  by  a  dog;  and  Argus 
seems  to  take  to  me  so  much  that  I  hope,  —  I  hope, 


232  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

he  and  I  shall  soon  be  fast  friends.  I  will  not  blun 
der  so  again."  —  The  knot  was  tied,  and  so  was 
one  which  Edward  could  never  undo  all  his  life 
after. 

What  little  things,  falling  in  with  our  dispositions, 
determine  the  course  of  our  affections.  The  liking  of 
an  old  family  house-dog,  acting  with  a  first  impres 
sion,  did  more  to  fix  Edward  in  favour  with  Mrs.  As 
ton  and  her  daughter,  than  any  one  of  the  party  was 
aware  of. 

"  What  has  my  brother  been  about?  Why,  I  de 
clare,  Miss  Aston,  you  will  make  a  very  florist  of  him. 
At  home  he  never  thinks  of  moving  one  of  my  plants 
into  the  sun  for  me  of  a  cold  day.  He  scarcely  looks 
at  them ;  and  says  that  he  had  almost  as  lief  be  shut 
up  in  a  room  full  of  stuffed  birds,  as  in  one  so  stuck 
round  with  flowers  and  flower-pots.  To  be  sure,  he 
brings  home  a  pocket-full  of  mosses  now  and  then,  and 
sometimes,  a  poor  little  field-flower;  but  if  I  ask  what 
it  is  called,  I  get  but  the  ploughboy's  name  for  it; 
for  under  its  formal  botanic  title  it  is  no  longer  a  po 
etic  being  to  him." 

"  You  forget  my  study  window  woodbine,  which  is 
of  my  own  planting  and  training." 

"Why,  so  I  did;  though,  if  I  chose  to  deny  that 
you  had  one,  nobody  would  believe  you,  after  such 
bungling  work  as  you  made  with  Miss  Aston's  just 
now.  And  now  that  I  think  on't,  you  have  nursed 
yours  in  that  particular  place,  merely  because  when 
you  were  young  and  foolish  enough  to  believe  the  story 
of  little  'Jack  and  the  Bean,'  you  stole  half  a  dozen 
green  beans  from  the  cook,  and  planted  them  there  to 
see  if  you  couldn't  climb  up  to  the  moon,  as  well  as 
Jack;  and  failing  of  growing  beans,  you  set  out  the 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  233 

woodbine  as  a  remembrancer  of  unsuspecting  inno 
cence,  and  SL  memento  of  early  hopes  disappointed." 

"Do  you  make  sport  of  all  your  friends  in  this  way?  " 
asked  Mary;  "or  has  your  brother  good-naturedly 
consented  that  you  should  spend  your  merriment  upon 
him,  that  you  may  spare  your  other  friends?  I  hope 
there  is  some  such  compact  between  you,  else  I  must 
always  be  upon  my  guard  with  you." 

"  As  to  a  compact,  you  will  know  all  about  that  one 
of  these  days.  I  've  no  doubt  your  sagacity  will  find 
it  out  soon  enough  for  me.  In  the  mean  time,  I  would 
advise  you  to  go  on  independent  of  my  foolish  humour; 
for,  be  assured,  however  like  paradox  it  may  look, 
nothing  so  lays  people  open,  as  aiming  to  act  always 
upon  their  good  behaviour." 

"  You  speak  with  a  wit's  confidence,  Miss  Shirley; 
but  as  your  observation  sorts  well  with  my  own  judg 
ment,  I  '11  e'en  follow  it.  And  if  my  heedlessness 
brings  down  your  ridicule  upon  me,  I  shall,  at  any 
rate,  have  one  to  help  me  bear  it,"  said  she,  slightly 
colouring,  as  her  eyes  met  those  of  Edward,  turned 
with  a  serious  earnestness  upon  her. 

How  hard  it  is  at  certain  times,  when  we  are  most 
in  need  of  it  too,  to  find  something  to  say!  —  except 
to  the  practised,  who  are  never  tortured  by  embarrass 
ment,  and  never  wanting  to  themselves.  Harriet  had 
moved  forward  to  speak  a  word  or  two  to  Mrs.  Aston, 
and  Mary  and  Edward  remained  together,  feeling  suf 
ficiently  awkward,  and  all  the  while  conscious  that 
the  embarrassment  of  each  was  known  to  the  other. 

We  are  forever  searching  after  great  and  marked 
causes  for  important  events,  and  cannot  be  content  to 
let  our  deepest  and  strongest  feelings  come  from  the 
small,  unnoticed  incidents  of  life.  Yet  an  unthought 


234  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

of  word  dropped  in  discourse,  the  voice  that  utters  it,  for 
the  momentary  look  that  goes  with  it,  oftentimes  thrills 
us  more,  and  enters  with  a  more  quickening  sense 
into  our  hearts,  than  all  the  purposed  and  well  ordered 
terms  of  rhetoric.  To  those  who  have  something  which 
makes  them  kindred  to  one  another,  these  are  beauti 
ful  revelations  of  each  other's  nature.  Delicate  and 
according  minds  hold  intelligent  discourse,  in  half  ut 
tered  words,  and  shifting  movements,  and  passing 
expressions  of  the  face:  It  is  like  the  imagined  in 
tercourse  of  angels,  whose  thoughts  and  feelings  are 
interchanged  by  strange  and  wonderful  sympathies, 
and  need  no  tongue  to  speak  them.  It  is  so  in  early  love, 
with  those  whose  characters  are  in  agreement.  And 
so  was  it  in  the  present  case.  Not  that  Edward  and 
Mary  entered  into  a  self-examination  of  their  hearts; 
but  a  peculiar  delight  was  felt  by  each  for  the  first 
time,  and  life  seemed  a  new  existence  to  them. 

"  It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  me,"  said  Edward,  at 
last;  "  that  I  have  a  multitude  of  foolish  things  about 
me,  for  my  sister  to  make  amusement  out  of.  She 
would  scarce  care  a  jot  for  me,  were  I  apiece  of  per 
fection.  She  says  that  she  cannot  away  with  those 
proper  folks  who  never  commit  themselves." 

"  Her  interest  in  the  world  will  not  be  likely  to 
lessen,  if  it  measures  itself  by  people's  inadvertencies 
or  follies,"  said  Mary. 

"  What  she  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Harriet, 
turning  round.  "  Are  you  putting  your  heads  together 
to  make  mutual  defence  and  secret  alliance  against 
my  declared  hostility?  Come,  I  must  break  this  up 
in  good  time.  Your  mother  is  going  into  the  house, 
Miss  Aston,  for  it  is  growing  chilly.  And  don't  you 
see  the  mist  wreathing  up  along  the  meadow  yonder." 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  235 

"  It  will  do  no  harm  to  us  to-night,  Harriet,  for  the 
moon  is  rising  betimes  to  keep  it  down  in  the  lowlands; 
and  if  you  will  ask  Miss  Aston  to  walk  to  the  end  of 
the  lane  with  you,  I  will  insure  her  a  walk  back  safe 
from  all  colds." 

"I  hardly  know  whether  I  shall  ask  her,"  said 
Harriet,  at  the  same  time  taking  her  arm  within  her 
own  and  walking  on ; "  for  you  must  know,  Miss  A.ston, 
that  though  my  brother  generally  avoids  our  sex,  yet, 
when  caught  amongst  them,  he  is  one  of  the  most 
scrupulously  polite  gentlemen  in  the  world.  Now, 
think  of  his  situation  when  we  reach  the  end  of  the 
lane!  Could  he  see  you  returning  by  the  dark,  giant 
trunks  of  all  these  trees,  without  a  protector?  And  yet 
it  would  never  do  to  leave  me  standing  alone,  though  I 
am  his  sister.  What  a  ridiculous  embarrassment  he 
would  be  thrown  into,  a  step  forward  and  then  a  step 
back,  till  brought  to  a  perfect  stand-still." 

"A  Garrick  between  Tragedy  and  Comedy,  my 
sister." 

"  True,  but  with  an  opposite  leaning.  And  as  you 
would  have  to  choose  one  and  refuse  the  other,  if  I 
were  to  represent  Comedy,  as  in  such  case,  I  presume 
I  needs  must,  it  is  plain  enough,  Sir  Melancholy,  what 
would  be  my  fate." 

"  Your  imagined  difficulty  is  all  over  now,  Miss 
Shirley,  for  here  comes  one  who  has  been  my  brave 
gallant  this  many  a  day,"  said  Mary,  patting  Argus 
on  the  head  as  he  made  up  to  her  side.  "  I  have  half 
a  mind  to  turn  you  off  with  him  and  ask  Mr.  Shirley 
to  wait  upon  me,  to  punish  you  for  all  you  have  said 
to-night." 

"  That  would  hardly  be  fair,  Miss  Aston.  My 
sister's  ridicule  might  hurt  the  poor  fellow's  feelings; 


236  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

and,  though  very  sagacious,  the  odds  might  be  against 
him  at  an  encounter  of  wits." 

Here,  with  one  common  and  blending  sense  of  hap 
piness,  they  reached  the  gateway,  and  then  parted 
for  the  first  time.  How  vaguely  busy  the  mind  is  at 
parting,  after  a  first  meeting,  where  the  heart  has 
been  at  all  touched. 

From  the  air  of  politicians,  it  must  be  a  mighty 
easy  matter  to  see  into  the  causes  of  the  great  changes 
in  the  world.  There  is  scarce  a  word  of  truth  in  all 
they  say,  let  them  talk  about  it  ever  so  plausibly. 
From  your  intangible,  theoretic  German,  down  to 
your  mere  matter-of-fact  man,  who  dates  Buonaparte's 
overthrow  from  the  rise  of  sugars  in  France,  they  are 
all  wrong.  The  causes  assigned  by  each  may  have  a 
share  in  what  is  done.  So,  we  may  cut  a  twig,  and 
set  it  in  the  ground,  and  keep  the  earth  loose  about  it; 
and  in  a  few  years  what  diminutive  things  we  look 
like  under  its  long,  cool  branches!  Its  growth  is  as 
hidden  as  it  is  silent,  and  when  it  lays  itself  out  upon 
the  air,  a  beautiful  mystery,  with  its  web  of  glossy 
leaves  interwoven  with  golden  sunshine,  do  we  look 
up  into  it  with  any  other  feeling  than  that  of  glad 
vvorsihp  ?  And  yet  we  know  more  of  its  origin,  and 
had  more  to  do  with  making  it  what  it  now  is,  than  we 
have  part  or  knowledge  in  a  tythe  of  what  we  decide 
on  so  familiarly. 

If  outward  and  noted  events  keep  us  so  in  igno 
rance  of  their  nature,  what  are  we  to  do  with  the 
subtile  movements  of  the  mind?  They  are  quick  or 
slow,  they  agitate  us  violently  or  are  scarcely  felt, 
hurry  us  suddenly  forward  after  what  we  a  little  before 
followed  sluggishly  and  at  intervals,  or  turn  us  about 
in  pursuit  of  that  which  we  had  passed  by  with  indif- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  237 

ference;  and  all  from  causes  so  strange  or  so  hidden, 
that  we  cannot  comprehend  them,  nor  search  them  out. 

Edward,  within  an  hour  or  two,  had  passed  through 
some  of  the  most  simple  and  ordinary  events  that  take 
place  in  our  common  intercourse ;  yet  he  had  come  out 
of  them  altogether  changed.  He  who  had  looked 
with  an  idle  eye,  and  with  an  estranged  mind  upon 
what  was  the  concern  of  others,  found  his  being,  in 
an  instant,  swallowed  up  in  that  of  another.  —  "  How 
gross  is  every  thing  else  on  earth,"  said  he  to  him 
self,  "  compared  with  the  beautiful  refinement  of  a 
woman!"  And  how  monotonous  and  tame  and  indis 
tinct  was  the  former  being  of  his  imagination,  at  that 
moment,  compared  to  Mary  Aston! 

After  walking  home  in  silence  with  his  sister,  he 
continued  rambling  about.  The  house  was  too  close 
and  confined  for  him.  There  was  a  quick  and  warm 
pulsation  through  him,  and  his  frame  was  expanding 
and  beating  with  new  life.  Beautiful  images  of  the 
brain  were  coming  and  going  fast  and  bright  as  the 
light,  and  all  things  that  drank  the  moist  night  air  and 
slept  under  the  moon,  or  shone  and  moved  beneath  it, 
gave  him  a  new  delight,  and  he  loved  them  more  than 
ever.  He  was  not  sensible  how  far  he  had  wandered, 
till  the  low,  broad  chimney  of  Mrs.  Aston's  house 
met  his  eye,  as  it  stood  out  in  strong  and  sharp  relief 
against  the  moonlight.  Though  alone,  the  colour 
rose  in  his  cheek  and  he  felt  a  beating  at  his  heart. 
His  soul  was  in  a  moment  laid  open  to  him.  What 
he  had  not  been  conscious  of  as  being  any  thing 
more  than  one  of  those  bright  and  hopeful  moments 
"which  visit  us  sometimes,  we  know  not  why,  when 
*'  an  unaccustomed  spirit  lifts  us  above  the  ground 
\vithhappythoughts,"  he  now  found  to  be  one  of  the 


238  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

most  serious  circumstances  that  can  happen  to  a  man 
of  sentiment;  and  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
to  himself  that  he  was  in  love. 

Almost  all  men,  at  some  time  or  other,  are  carried 
out  of  their  course  by  influences  that  act  upon  them, 
with  the  power  and  silence  of  the  currents  of  the  ocean, 
and  ignorant  how  to  keep  their  reckoning  or  careless 
about  it,  the  bigger  part  are  wrecked.  Edward  found 
that  he  had  been  swept  unconsciously  along.  Still,  all 
was  so  beautiful,  that  he  did  not  consider  whither  the 
stream  was  carrying  him;  for  the  clouds,  and  jutting 
rocks,  and  islands  with  all  their  trees  upon  them, 
glassed  themselves  in  the  sea,  and  made  a  fairy  show 
for  him  to  gaze  down  upon. 

He  drew  near  the  house.  As  he  moved  along  un 
der  the  branches  of  the  large  trees,  their  noise  over 
his  head  was  like  that  of  the  surf.  There  was  some 
thing  ominous  and  wizard-like  in  the  confused  and 
wild  multitude  of  their  motions  and  sounds ;  and  a 
melancholy  foreboding  crossed  his  mind  like  the 
shadow  of  a  cloud.  As  he  passed  out  from  under 
neath  their  shade,  his  cheerfulness  returned;  and  as 
he  looked  toward  the  dwelling  of  Mary  Aston,  he  felt 
a  blessing  on  him.  The  uncouth  variety  and  conceit 
in  the  old  building  looked  more  grotesque  than  before, 
in  the  moonlight;  and  the  shadows  of  the  odd  peaks 
and  projections,  falling  at  random  upon  it,  seemed 
like  the  fantastic  creatures  of  the  night,  holding  their 
games  in  its  sides  and  nooks.  It  was  a  tolerable 
representation  of  the  mind  of  him  who  was  looking  at 
it.  For  images  and  thoughts  were  going  through  that 
without  order,  and  of  which  he  knew  not  whence  they 
came,  or  whither  they  tended.  His  intellect  and  his 
sensations  were  under  the  sway  of  some  powers  with- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  239 

out  him,  which  at  one  time  expanded  him  with  joyful 
hopes,  and  then  again  withered  him  with  fearful  and 
causeless  despair.  He  lingered  near  the  house  a 
long  time,  till  at  length  the  sense  of  the  endless  dura 
tion  and  of  the  continued  going  on  of  life,  with  which 
nature  impresses  us,  gradually  gave  a  steadiness  and 
cheerfulness  to  his  thoughts;  and  the  fixed  sky,  and 
bright  moon,  and  the  image  of  Mary  Aston,  altogether 
wrought  his  soul  to  harmony,  and  he  returned  home 
tranquil  and  happy. 

A  real  lover  is  quite  an  unaccountable  creature 
when  awake;  it  would  be  altogether  in  vain  to  attempt 
describing  his  dreams.  Edward  did  not  wake  in  the 
morning,  however,  in  that  state  of  composed  indiffer 
ence  in  which  we  generally  are  when  coming  out  of 
sleep.  Before  he  was  roused  to  a  full  possession  of 
his  faculties,  there  was  a  vague  notion  of  something 
important  to  be  done,  or  of  some  uncommon  event  in 
which  he  was  concerned. 

He  did  not  find  his  sister  at  the  breakfast-table,  to 
tease  him  and  divert  him  from  his  silent  abstraction.  — 
He  grew  more  and  more  restless  as  the  day  advanced — 
his  books  seemed  dull  —  he  was  wearied  of  sitting 
still,  and  as  tired  of  walking.  When  we  are  in  per 
plexity  from  having  forgotten  what  we  carne  after,  we 
go  back  to  the  place  we  started  from,  to  set  all  right. 
Had  he  followed  this  method  and  gone  to  Mrs. 
Aston's,  he  would  have  rid  himself  at  once  of  all  his 
uneasiness.  He  was  sensible  enough  of  this.  —  "  It 
is  not  within  rule,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  What  pre 
posterous  things  these  rules  of  society  are  —  for  all 
but  blockheads  and  impertinents."  One  in  love  must 
be  allowed  to  say  so,  yet  he  is  wrong.  We  all  stand 
in  need  of  these  rules,  more  or  less;  and  if  they  some- 


240  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

times  appear  merely  troublesome,  a  little  trouble  is 
well  for  the  best  of  us.  Facilities,  for  the  most  part, 
do  more  harm  than  good:  children  of  the  next  gener 
ation  will  find  it  so,  and  thank  us  little  for  what  our 
half  vanity  and  half  affection  are  now  so  busy  about 
for  them. 

Addison  has  written  an  essay  showing  why  it  is 
harder  to  conceive  of  eternity  as  never  beginning, 
than  as  never  ending.  Edward  was  as  much  puzzled 
to  set  bounds  to  his  day,  as  we  are  to  think  of  eternity 
without  days.  It  closed  upon  him  at  last;  and  the 
next  went  on  the  same  way,  till  he  found  himself,  near 
the  end  of  it,  in  a  narrow  lane  back  of  Mrs.  Aston's 
dwelling. 

Though  Mary  Aston  possessed  much  of  that  equa 
bility  and  patience  of  temper,  for  which  women  are  so 
proverbial,  it  would  look  like  a  repetition  of  what  has 
just  been  said,  to  describe  her  feelings  since  she  had 
parted  from  Edward.  She  had  walked  out  towards 
night-fall,  that  the  cool  air  might  refresh  her,  and 
without  being  at  all  conscious  of  it,  from  a  feeling 
which  goes  for  hope,  but  which  perhaps  has  more  of 
wishing  than  of  expectation  in  it,  that  before  she  return 
ed  she  might  see  Edward.  Our  wishes  often  give  us 
expectations,  but  they  as  often  direct  our  conduct 
where  we  have  nothing  to  hope  for.  If  they  can  do 
it  in  no  other  way,  they  will  bring  it  about  by  putting 
us  into  a  kind  of  fanciful  state,  and  making  the  ima 
ginary  pass  for  the  actual.  It  is  not  very  wide  of  that 
condition  which  a  child  is  in  when  he  is  mounted  upon 
a  walking-stick  and  plays  it  is  his  horse.  It  is  a  little 
ludicrous  and  mortifying,  that  wise  and  tall  men  should 
be  caught  in  this  way  riding  their  own  canes,  so  we 
will  say  nothing  more  about  it. 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  241 

The  colour  rose  in  the  cheek  of  each,  and  their 
manner  was  slightly  embarrassed,  as  they  suddenly 
met  in  the  lane;  but  the  tremulousness  of  the  voice 
told  better  than  these,  what  was  at  their  hearts.  Ed 
ward  of  course  passed  the  evening  with  Mary  and 
her  mother.  "  You  must  pardon  my  staying  to  so 
late  an  hour.  I  am  not  a  frequent  visiter,  but  I  never 
know  when  it  is  time  to  go."  This  he  said  as  he  rose, 
and  against  all  rule,  leaned  over  the  back  of  his  chair. 
It  was  some  time  before  he  quitted  this,  and  there  was 
longer  lingering  at  the  door-step;  for  Mary's  voice 
made  music  so  soft  and  clear  in  the  still  night  air, 
and  her  eyes,  turned  upward  to  the  moon,  were  so 
like  a  kindred  Heaven,  answering  to  that  over  their 
heads,  — how  could  he  quit  it  all,  to  be  alone  again? 

"  Is  it  you,  Mrs.  Aston,  or  Mary,"  said  Harriet 
one  day,  "  who  has  wrought  such  a  change  in  my 
once  steady  brother  ?  Formerly  he  was  never  abroad, 
and  now  is  never  at  home.  I  can  answer  the  ques 
tion  myself.  He  comes  to  moralize  upon  the  sin  and 
vanity  of  the  world,  along  with  your  mother,  Mary. 
He  rarely  talks  to  girls  like  us;  for  he  says  he  sel 
dom  meets  with  any  who  do  not  show  that  they  are  all 
the  time  having  an  eye  to  themselves,  let  the  subject 
they  are  conversing  about  be  ever  so  serious  or  im 
portant.  In  his  brotherly  fondness,  he  would  make 
me  an  exception,  I  dare  say,  did  I  ever  talk  seriously. 
The  most  I  ever  arrive  at  is  to  make  him  laugh,  and 
be  called  a  rattle-head,  for  my  pains." 

"  His  remark,  I  fear,  is  as  true  as  any  general  one 
may  be,"  answered  Mary.  "  And  he  might  have  ex 
tended  it  to  those  of  his  own  sex,  though  a  little 
qualified,  perhaps,  had  he  been  as  much  inclined  to 
observe  them.  The  truth  is,  both  girls  and  young 
16 


242  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

men  appear  to  more  advantage  when  conversing  with 
the  old  of  an  opposite  sex,  than  with  those  of  their 
own  age.  I  always  take  most  satisfaction  in  talking 
with  men  who  are  turning  gray." 

"  Should  not  Mary  in  all  fairness  except  my  grave 
brother,  Mrs.  Aston,  who  goes  about  looking  as  if  he 
was  always  thinking  upon  something,  as  our  old  house 
keeper  says?  " 

"That  were  scarce  necessary,"  said  Mrs.  Aston, 
not  observing  the  flush  which  her  reply  threw  over 
Mary's  face.  "  I  never  met  with  a  man  who  seemed 
more  sincere  and  in  earnest  in  what  he  was  about. 
Besides,  there  is  so  much  of  the  propriety  of  princi 
ple  in  his  manner,  which  keeps  off  all  encroachment, 
without  any  appearance  of  his  being  on  his  guard, 
and  such  a  simple  and  unostentatious  delicacy,  alto 
gether  unlike  that  showy  complaisance  which  passes 
for  good  breeding,  but  is  exceedingly  vulgar,  be 
cause  it  supposes  an  inferiority  in  him  towards  whom 
it  is  displayed, —  that  I  should  argue  ill  of  the  discern 
ment,  and  almost  of  the  character  of  one  who  did  not, 
upon  a  first  acquaintance,  feel  the  beauty  of  his  con 
duct." 

"  What  a  compliment  I  have  to  carry  home  to  my 
brother,"  said  Harriet,  going. 

11  You  must  not  carry  any  from  me,  Harriet." 

"  Why  not,  Madam?  They  are  the  best  things  in 
the  world  to  put  folks  in  good  humour.  I  always  man 
ufacture  one  for  my  prim  aunt,  when  I  go  to  pass  the 
day  with  her,  as  I  sometimes  am  obliged  to  do,  because 
my  mother  says  it  is  proper  to  visit  our  relations." 

"Perhaps  your  aunt  is  too  old  to  be  injured  by 
them,"  said  Mary;  "yet  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  which  has  turned  so  many  wise  folks  into 
fools." 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  243 

"  I  will  be  even  with  you  for  your  hit  at  my  aunt's 
vanity,  Miss  Mary.  And  to  pay  you  for  your  philoso 
phy,  which  ill  becomes  a  Miss  in  her  teens,  I  shall 
dress  up  the  compliment  as  well  as  I  know  how,  and 
with  a  happy  vagueness,  leave  my  brother  to  conjec 
ture  whether  it  be  from  mother  or  child." 

"  Don't  put  your  brother  upon  any  such  guesses.  If 
you  needs  must  repeat  it,  let  him  know  that  it  came 
from  an  elderly  lady,  and  not  from  a  young  one." 

11  Now,  I  did  not  expect  that  from  you,  Ma'am, 
who  had  just  said  so  much  about  his  wisdom;  and 
when  it  was  but  the  other  night  too,  that  he  talked  so 
gravely  about  virtue's  only  being  sure  when  resting 
wholly  on  itself,  and  finding  its  satisfactions  within, 
and  not  in  distinctions  that  attend  it  abroad.  Come, 
Mary,  you  sha'n't  look  so  gravely  at  me,"  said  Har 
riet,  as  Mary  followed  her  to  the  door.  "  You  need 
not  fear  me.  And  even  if  I  should  divert  myself  with 
some  idle  story,  my  brother  thinks  too  justly  of  you, 
1  trust,  to  take  any  thing  of  the  kind  that  I  may  say,' 
for  more  than  mere  foolery."  Mary  returned  the 
pressure  of  Harriet's  hand,  and  wished  her  cheerfully 
a  pleasant  walk  home,  as  she  sprang  lightly  from  the 
step. 

Mary  went  happy  to  her  chamber,  reflecting  upon 
the  warm  manner  in  which  her  mother  had  spoken  in 
praise  of  Edward,  and  thinking  her  the  best  mother 
that  ever  lived. 

Though  Harriet  was  no  go-between,  and  despised 
match-making  as  heartily  as  it  deserves  to  be;  yet  she 
had  such  a  love  for  her  brother,  and  took  so  deep  an 
interest  in  all  that  concerned  him,  and  was  so  desirous 
that  be  might  shake  off  that  melancholy  which  too 
often  preyed  upon  him,  by  finding  an  object  for  his 


244  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

affections  to  fasten  on,  that  she  could  not  avoid  show 
ing  how  happy  it  made  her  to  find  that  there  was  so 
much  of  sympathy  between  Mary  and  her  brother. 
Upon  her  return  home,  she  could  not  help  letting  fall 
certain  expressions  and  remarks  which  referred  to 
Mrs.  Aston's  opinion  of  him,  and  at  the  same  time, 
showing  what  she  surmised  were  Mary's  feelings. 
This  she  did  cautiously  and  in  a  playful  way,  for 
she  well  understood  that  Edward  was  not  a  man  to  be 
talked  to,  or  to  talk  of  his  affections;  and  she  knew 
how  to  respect  him  for  it. 

"Am  I  not  sure  that  she  loves  me?''  said  he  one 
day,  as  he  shut  his  study  door.  "And  why  should  I 
delay?  Is  it  not  trifling  with  myself,  and  what  is 
more,  with  a  woman  of  delicate  and  ardent  feelings?" 
He  had  asked  himself  these  very  questions  before. 
And  those  who  go  to  proffer  terms  of  marriage  with 
certificates  of  property  and  letters  of  recommendation 
in  their  pockets,  must  think  him  a  very  odd  sort  of 
fellow  to  make  such  a  pother  about  that  which  so 
many  have  done  before  him  off  hand.  Some  are 
blessed  with  an  undisturbed  worldly  wisdom,  while 
others  are  carried  to  and  fro,  or  hurried  or  delayed 
by  impulses  and  sensations  made  up  of  exquisite  plea 
sures  and  acute  pains  over  which  they  have  little  con 
trol.  Heaven  help  these  last.  The  first  can  take 
care  of  themselves,  at  least  for  this  world. 

There  are  men  of  a  certain  refined  sense,  brave 
men  too,  and  with  not  a  whit  of  awkward  bashfulness 
in  them  neither,  who,  even  where  they  knew  the 
affection  to  be  mutual,  could  no  more  tell  a  woman 
that  they  loved  her,  just  when  they  chose  to  fix  the 
time  for  doing  so,  than  Cowper  could  have  spoken  in 
the  House  of  Commons. 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  245 

Urgent  business  of  his  Father's  prevented  Edward 
for  some  time  from  seeing  Mary.  When  he  did,  it  was 
the  mild  evening  of  a  warm  day.  The  parlour  door  was 
open,  and  he  entered  the  room  and  drew  near  the 
window  where  she  was  sitting,  without  being  observed 
by  her;  for  she  was  lost  in  painful  reflection.  To  feel 
neglected  by  him  would  have  been  hard  enough  to 
bear;  but  the  fear  that  Harriet,  in  her  thoughtless 
chat,  had  said  something  which  had  lowered  her  in 
the  opinion  of  Edward,  was  intolerable.  The  ill  opin 
ion  of  such  a  man  was  almost  enough  to  make  even 
the  innocent  feel  the  shame  of  guilt. 

The  melancholy  of  those  we  love,  when  a  token  of 
their  interest  in  us,  gives  us  almost  as  deep  a  delight 
for  a  time,  as  when  we  think  we  make  them  happy  — 
perhaps  a   deeper.     For  almost   any  one  may  move 
another  to  pleasure,  and  the  degrees  of  pleasure  can 
not  always  be  distinguished.     But  when  one  is  in  grief 
from  some  small  circumstance,  in  love,   we  have  an 
assurance  that  there  can  be  no  mistake.     When  Ed 
ward  looked  upon  Mary's  fine  face,  and  saw  it  over 
cast,  and  said  to  himself,  "This  is  because  of  me,"  an 
exquisite  joy  thrilled  through  his  heart,   at  the   same 
time  that  she  was  dearer  to  him  than  ever.     His  voice 
betrayed  his  emotion  as  he  spoke  to  her;  and  suddenly 
raising  her  eyes,  she  saw  his  grand,  serious  counte 
nance  lighted  up  with  a  smile  full  of  love.     There  was 
an  answering  one   in  Mary's  face,  mingled  with  an 
expression  of  confusion,  and  something  like  pain  from 
surprise  and  the   suddenness  of  the   change    in    her 
feelings.     This  was  a  fine  moment  for  a  lover.     Not 
so  for  Edward  ;    he  was  too  full  of  delightful  sensa 
tions,  and  could  only  look  on  in  still  rapture.     When 
he  at  last  spoke,  his  words  had  little  to  do  with  his 


246  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

immediate  thoughts,  and  he  was  as  far  from  his  pur 
pose  as  before.  She  moved  a  little,  and  Edward  sat 
down  by  her  in  the  old  window-seat.  Her  beautifully 
turned  arm,  and  tapering,  dimpled  fingers,  were  rest 
ing  on  the  window-ledge.  —  "Did  I  ever  see  that 
ring  before  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No,  for  I  have  just  received  it.  f  It  was  a  seal- 
ring  of  my  grandfather's,'  "  she  added,  half  laughing. 

"  Whether  your  grandfather's  or  a  younger  man's,'" 
he  replied,  looking  somewhat  anxiously  in  her  face, 
"  it  is  a  very  curious  one."  She  was  half  offended 
and  half  pleased  at  this  show  of  jealous  regard. — • 
"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Shirley,  do  you  think  that  it 
is  my  way  to  wear  young  men's  rings?" — Then 
changing  her  voice  to  her  usual  tone;  —  "  It  is  rather 
a  singular  one.  Will  you  look  at  it?"  she  said 
frankly,  at  the  same  time  drawing  it  from  her  finger. 

If  we  are  not  very  careful,  we  cannot  take  so  little 
a  thing  as  a  ring  from  another,  without  the  hands 
touching  slightly;  nor  is  it  very  easy  for  two  persons 
to  examine  curiously  so  small  a  matter  without  their 
heads  coming  very  near  to  each  other.  It  is  ten  to 
one  that,  at  any  rate,  you  will  feel  some  stray,  curling 
lock  touching  every  now  and  then  against  your  fore 
head.  You  may  know  that  is  not  your  own,  by  the 
thrill  it  sends  through  the  brain  and  bosom.  There 
is  a  breath  too,  pure  as  air,  which  reaches  you:  — 
there  is  no  such  atmosphere  in  the  whole  world  for 
sensations.  There  needs  no  talking  at  such  a  moment ; 
there  is  a  close  and  silent  communion  of  the  thoughts 
and  wakened  senses,  by  which  we  understand  each 
other  better  than  we  could  by  words,  though  we  culled 
the  choicest  from  the  language  of  every  nation  on  the 
globe.  Even  the  tones  of  love,  in  their  utmost  soft- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  247 

ness,  would  break  up  the  beautiful  working  of  the 
charm,  at  such  a  time,  and  turn  all  to  common  life 
again. 

It  was  Mary  who  took  the  ring  off,  but  it  was 
Edward  who  put  it  on  again;  and  it  was  done  with  so 
much  respectful  delicacy,  and  with  so  gentle  a  touch 
of  the  hand,  that  a  dedicated  nun  could  not  have  been 
offended  at  it.  Mary's  heart  beat  quick,  and  as  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  ring,  that  heart  asked,  Is  it  not  a 
pledge  of  his  love? 

It  was,  indeed,  love  that  had  done  it  all;  but  it  was 
inaudible  love,  love  that  understood  not  itself,  nor  why 
it  had  done  thus.  It  was  the  bud  of  love,  and  the 
hour  had  not  yet  come  for  its  opening. 

The  conversation  took  a  moralizing  turn,  and  a 
good  deal  was  said  about  the  feelings — not  in  a  pro 
sing  way.  There  was  a  closer  intimacy  in  the  cast  of 
it,  than  there  had  been  before.  They  knew  the  char 
acter  of  each  other's  minds  and  dispositions  as  well  as 
if  they  had  lived  together  for  years.  Some  will  say 
this  is  impossible.  The  opinion  of  such  persons  may 
be  true  enough,  so  far  as  concerns  themselves,  and 
half  the  world  beside.  Most  people  might  as  well  be 
married  by  proxy,  like  princes,  as  to  any  knowledge 
they  have  of  one  another's  character  at  the  time. 
And  it  is  a  pity  that  many  of  them  could  not  remain 
in  their  ignorance,  so  badly  are  they  sorted.  The 
most  they  ever  arrive  at  is  a  sort  of  unwillingness  to 
be  long  apart,  from  a  habit  of  having  been  much 
together.  There  are  peculiar  people,  however,  who 
get  as  much  into  what  is  essential  in  each  other's 
character  in  half  an  hour's  acquaintance,  by  what  is 
said,  and  the  manner  in  which  things  are  said  or  done, 
as  others  would,  should  they  pass  together  the  lives 


248  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

of  a  patriarch  and  his  spouse. —  Then,  says  one,  you 
are  a  believer  in  love  at  first  sight?  —  I  believe  that 
such  a  thing  may  be,  or  something  very  like  it. 

They  were  walking  in  front  of  the  house,  when  the 
time  came  for  Edward  to  return  home.  cc  Stay  a 
moment,  Mr.  Shirley;  late  as  it  is,  you  must  help  me 
about  my  woodbine  once  more,  before  you  go;  for  see, 
the  wind  has  thrown  it  down." — As  they  were  training 
it  up,  their  eyes  met,  and  their  looks  showed  to  each 
other  that  the  time  when  they  first  saw  one  another, 
and  all  which  had  passed  since,  were  in  their  thoughts. 

"What  did  you  think  of  me  then?"  said  he. 
"  When?  "  she  asked.  And  half  ashamed  of  feigning 
ignorance  of  what  she  perfectly  well  understood  — 
"  Think  of  you?  Why,  much  as  I  do  now,  and  as  I 
trust  I  always  shall." 

cc  If  I  interpret  this  according  to  my  wishes,  shall  I 
be  right?" 

c;  I  hope  so,"  she  said,  colouring;  "  or  what  could 
your  opinion  be  of  me,  else?  " 

"The  same  as  it  always  has  been  and  must  be, 
For  much  as  I  should  suffer  to  be  without  your  esteem 
and  kind  regard,  Mary,  you  will  always  have  mine. 
I  would  say  more,  but,  I  know  not  why,  I  cannot 
now.  Need  I  say  it?  You  know  what  I  feel,  for  I 
have  ever  shown  myself  to  you  what  I  am,  though  I 
cannot  to  all  the  world.  —  All  is  not  well  at  my  heart 
now.  3Tis  strange.  I  was  the  happiest  man  alive  a 
moment  ago.  No  matter;  —  we  shall  meet  again 
to-morrow.  Whether  we  meet  or  not,  whether  good 
or  ill  come  to  me,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  within 
both  of  his  and  pressing  it  earnestly,  "  may  God's  best 
blessing  rest  upon  you,  Mary." —  His  voice  faltered. 
—  Mary  tried  to  speak.  It  was  in  vain.  Her  lips 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  249 

moved,  but  there  was  no  sound.  She  raised  her  eyes 
to  his  with  an  almost  imploring  look.  She  was  not 
given  to  tears,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  yet  they  filled 
her  eyes  now.  Edward  kissed  away  one  that  stood 
on  her  cheek,  and  hurried  from  her  with  a  bewildered 
mind. 

Are  not  our  feelings  sometimes  sent,  like  holy  proph 
ets,  to  make  us  ready  against  evils  which  we  see  not, 
but  which  are  nigh  at  hand?  Edward  continued  his 
walk  till  a  late  hour,  that  he  might  rid  himself  of  the 
feverish  restlessness  which  tormented  his  body  arid 
mind. 

Mr.  Shirley  had  been  from  home  for  a  couple  of 
days,  and  had  returned  during  Edward's  absence. 
As  Edward  drew  near  the  house,  he  saw  a  light  in 
his  father's  study.  He  perceived  by  the  frequent 
darkening  of  the  lamp  that  some  one  was  walking  the 
room  with  a  rapid  pace.  His  feelings  were  in  a  state 
to  bode  ill.  It  was  unusual  for  his  father  to  be  up  at 
so  late  an  hour,  and  Edward  remembered  that  for 
several  days  before  his  leaving  home,  he  had  appeared 
anxious  and  abstracted.  Edward's  character  was  so 
matured  and  of  so  serious  a  cast,  that  his  father  treated 
him  rather  as  a  companion  than  a  son.  He  entered 
the  house,  and  went  immediately  to  the  study-door 
and  knocked.  —  "  Who  5s  there  ?"  called  out  his  father. 

"It  is  I,  sir."  —  "O,  Edward!  Come  in!"— In 
stead  of  turning  and  giving  Edward  his  hand  as  usual, 
Mr.  Shirley  continued  walking  the  room  without 
noticing  him.  Edward  looked  at  his  father.  The 
room  shook  as  he  walked  it  to  and  fro,  and  the  foot 
seemed  to  grasp  the  floor  at  every  step.  His  arms 
were  folded  with  a  convulsive  closeness  over  his 
breast.  The  muscles  of  his  face  worked  hard,  and 
the  blood  was  beating  quick  through  the  clear,  high 


250  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

veins  of  his  temples.  —  "  I  have  been  waiting  for  you 
this  hour,"  said  he   at  last  in   an  under  voice,  and 
without  turning  his  head.     His  pace   grew  quicker 
and  quicker;  and  every  fibre  of  his  body  vibrated  with 
agony,   and   seemed  stretched  till  ready  to  snap.  - 
"°You  are   all  beggars,"   he  cried  out  at  last,  throw 
ing  himself  into  his  chair    and    gasping    for   breath. 
Edward's  alarm  for  his  father  scarcely  left  him  con 
scious  of  what   he  had  said.     He  went  to  him,  and 
leaning  over  him,   spoke   in  so  affectionate   a  voice 
that  it  touched  him  to  the  quick.     The  tears  started 
to  his  father's  eyes:  — it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  suffered  man  to  see  one  there.     He  grew  com 
posed  at  last,  and  bracing  himself  to  the  act,  told  his 
son  all  that  had  happened. 

It  appears  that  Mr  Shirley's  fortune  had  been  an 
ample  one;  but  having  attached  certain  notions  of 
princely  grandeur  to  wealth,  he  had,  in  a  moment  of 
ambition,  put  the  whole  at  stake  in  expectation  of  doub 
ling  it;  the  speculation  failed  and  he  lost  nearly  all. 

"You  are  much  exhausted,  sir,"  said  Edward, 
after  talking  with  his  father  a  long  time;  "  you  must 
go  to  bed  and  endeavour  to  sleep.  In  the  morning 
we  will  see  what  can  be  done.  I  hope  all  is  not  so 
bad  as  you  think."  "  Good  night  to  you,  Edward," 
said  he,  much  moved.  "  I  hope  this  news  has  not 
come  too  late  to  prevent  your  involving  another  in  our 
calamity.  If  not,  I  know  you  have  too  much  princi 
ple  in  you  to  bind  such  a  woman  to  your  hard  fortune, 
let  the  effort  to  stop  short  cost  you  what  it  may." 
know  not  —  I  hope,  —  I  fear.  -  "We  will  not  talk 
of  that  now,"  said  his  father  pressing  his  hand;  and 
Edward  left  the  room. 

For  a  man  of  a  shy  disposition  and  retired  habits, 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  251 

who  has  nurtured  all  his  romantic  thoughts  in  solitary 
musing,  whose  intellectual  being  is  made  up  of 
sentiment  and  imagination,  and  who  has  never  thought 
nor  cared  for  business  nor  gain,  to  attempt  of  a 
sudden  to  change  his  very  nature,  and  ignorant  as  an 
infant,  to  find  out  for  himself  through  the  intricacies 
of  trades  or  professions  a  way  amid  shrewd,  and  cal 
culating,  and  knowing  men,  is  almost  a  hopeless  un 
dertaking.  Though  Edward  did  not  want  energy  or 
perseverance,  he  was  not  presumptuous;  and  under 
standing  his  own  character  thoroughly,  and  how  far 
nature  and  education  had  unfitted  him  for  a  man  of 
business,  he  was  too  well  principled  and  generous  to 
endure  the  thought  of  connecting  another  with  his 
desperate  fortune,  and  of  feeling  that  while  he  was 
vainly  struggling  on,  her  life  was  wearing  away  in 
delayed  hopes. 

As  the  door  shut  upon  him,  it  seemed  as  if  every  liv 
ing  thing  had  quitted  him,  and  he  was  left  alone  upon 
the  bare  earth.  Though  his  passions  were  deep- 
rooted,  and  the  smallest  fibres  of  them  were  alive 
with  the  love  of  Mary,  his  father's  sufferings  had 
made  him  for  the  moment  forgetful  of  his  own.  And 
now  that  he  was  left  to  himself,  and  saw  that  he  was 
shorn  of  all  hope,  it  was  the  thought  of  Mary  that 
wrung  him.  —  "A  few  hours  ago,  Mary,  and  you 
came  to  me  with  the  elastic  spring  of  a  glad  and  fond 
spirit,  and  your  countenance  opened  and  brightened 
like  the  morning  upon  me.  It  is  all  over  now;  the  light 
is  shut  out,  and  you  must  wither  in  the  cold  and  damp 
which  is  ready  to  fall  on  you.  I  could  endure  my 
own  sufferings,  and  go  to  my  grave  alone,  sooner  or 
later,  as  God  might  will  for  me;  but  I  cannot,  I  can 
not  bear  the  thought  of  what  you  will  suffer — you 


252  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

whom  I  have  taught  to  love  me  so."  —  He  continued 
walking  the  room  till  the  birds  began  sending  out 
short,  broken  notes,  and  stirring  themselves  in  the 
trees.  He  :went  to  his  chamber,  and  over  wearied, 
fell  into  a  short,  uneasy  sleep. 

Though  Edward's  feelings  were  stronger  than  fall 
to  the  lot  of  many,  they  were  of  that  deep  kind,  and 
with  such  a  mixture  of  the  intellectual,  as  left  to  his 
firm  mind  a  self-control.  He  met  the  family  at  break 
fast  with  a  composed  countenance ;  and  immediately 
after,  went  with  his  father  to  the  study,  and  assisted 
him,  as  far  as  he  was  able,  in  adjusting  his  papers. 
All  was  in  order  in  a  few  days  to  deliver  up  to.  the 
creditors.  As  they  were  few,  and  gentlemen  who  had 
a  full  reliance  upon  Mr.  Shirley,  every  thing  was 
done  so  as  to  spare  his  feelings.  He  was  sensible  of 
it,  with  mixed  pride  and  gratitude.  The  family  were 
to  leave  the  mansion  and  retire  to  a  small  house, 
which,  with  a  trifling  income,  was  all  that  was  left  of 
the  estate. 

"  Harriet,"  said  Edward,  the  morning  after  he  was 
made  acquainted  with  his  father's  loss,  "will  you 
write  to  Mary  and  tell  her  what  has  happened?  I 
cannot  see  her  till  every  thing  is  adjusted.  It  would 
unman  me;  and  there  is  much  to  be  done,  and  my 
poor  father  must  have  all  my  assistance.  —  You  must 
command  yourself  better,"  said  he  in  a  low  and  steady 
tone.  —  "I  will,  I  will,  Edward;  but  I  could  not  have 
loved  a  sister  better;  and  I  have  almost  lived  upon 
the  thought  of  late,  that  I  was  to  see  you  both  so  happy 
soon!  It  is  all  over  now."  —  Edward  hurried  out  of 
the  room. 

In  a  few  days  the  family  were  ready  to  depart. 
They  entered  an  old  family  coach,  and  drove  off  as 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  253 

silently  as  if  following  a  friend  to  the  grave.  Edward 
was  to  remain  behind  till  every  thing  was  delivered 
up.  The  furniture  was  sent  away  to  the  city  to  be 
sold,  and  he  was  now  ready  to  follow  his  parents  and 
sister. 

So  long  as  there  remained  any  duties  for  Edward 
to  fulfil,  he  bore  up  firmly  against  this  sudden  destruc 
tion  of  his  hopes.  The  unrelaxed  and  intense  effort 
had  nearly  exhausted  both  mind  and  body,  and  yet 
the  hardest  trial  of  all  was  to  come.  He  was  to  meet 
Mary,  and  to  part  with  her,  perhaps,  forever.  "  Only 
a  few  days  ago,  thought  he,  while  I  was  absent  from 
her,  I  was  impatient  of  every  thing  till  the  hour  came 
that  I  was  to  meet  her.  I  scarcely  dare  think  of 
doing  it,  now." 

The  solitude  of  the  house  oppressed  him,  and 
seemed  to  forebode  evil.  "I  can  bear  it  no  longer; 
something  terrible  haunts  me." — As  he  was  hurrying 
out  of  the  house,  old  Jacob,  the  only  domestic  left 
behind,  met  him  at  the  door.  4C  Where  are  you 
going  this  sad  night,  Mr.  Edward?  The  mist  drops 
from  the  leaves  like  rain,  and  a  heavy  storm  is  set 
ting  in.  It  has  been  brewing  all  day  long,  and  begins 
to  stir  hard  in  the  trees." 

"  So  much  the  better,  so  much  the  better,"  mut 
tered  Edward,  pressing  forward;  then  stopping  a 
moment,  —  "have  every  thing  ready  to  start  by  sun 
rise,  Jacob.3' 

"  It  will  be  hard  to  tell  that  time  to-morrow,  Sir," 
answered  Jacob,  as  Edward  was  shutting  the  door, 
•'  if  I  know  what  the  weather  will  be  from  one  hour 
to  another." 

The  night  had  nearly  shut  in,  and  the  rocks  and 
trunks  of  trees,  which  were  almost  black  from  the 


254  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

dampness  which  had  been  upon  them  the  day  through,, 
seemed  to  Edward's  disturbed  mind  like  gloomy 
monsters  watching  his  steps,  as  he  half  caught  their 
forms  through  the  thick  twilight,  while  he  was  hasten 
ing  by  them.  "  Is  this  the  place  where  I  first  walked 
by  the  side  of  Mary  and  heard  her  voice?"  thought 
he,  as  he  passed  along  the  avenue.  "  It  is  all  changed, 
and  I  am  left  alone." 

He  drew  near  the  house.  It  was  lost  in  the  dark 
ness,  except  where  the  heavy  mist  reflected  back  the 
light  of  a  candle  in  the  parlour  window,  giving  through 
the  dimness  to  the  peaks  and  juts  the  appearance  of 
pale,  uncertain  flames  shooting  up  into  sharp  points. 
No  other  light  could  be  seen.  —  "How  quietly  it 
shines!  And  is  all  within  as  tranquil  as  that  flame? 
No,  Mary,  I  will  not  wrong  you;  you  could  not  so 
forget  me." 

As  he  came  nearer  to  the  house,  his  blood  throbbed 
quicker;  and  he  started  at  the  sound  of  the  beating  of 
his  heart.  He  waited  a  moment  to  gain  a  little  self- 
command.  The  door  was  opened  to  him,  and  he  en 
tered  the  parlour.  Mrs.  Aston  was  in  the  room  alone. 
As  she  turned  and  saw  the  pale  and  worn  countenance 
of  Edward,  she  started;  but  suddenly  recovering  her 
self,  she  went  up  to  him  and  took  him  kindly  by  the 
hand.  "  Why  have  you  kept  away  from  us  so  long?  " 
inquired  she  in  a  gentle  but  agitated  voice.  "  You 
do  not  take  us  for  summer  flies,  I  know  Mr.  Shirley. 5; 

"  O,  if  I  did,  madam,  I  should  not  come  now  to 
trouble  you  this  last  time." 

"Do  you  go  so  soon?  Are  we  not  to  see  you 
again?  "  "I  must  go  to-morrow,"  he  answered  hur 
riedly.  "  Whether  I  shall  see  you  again,  I  know 
not.  I  cannot  tell." 


EDWARD    AND    MAUY.  255 

"  Better  days  will  come  to  you;  you  are  but  a  very 
young  man  yet,  Mr.  Shirley." 

Edward  shook  his  head,  but  made  no  reply.  They 
both  continued  for  some  time  silent.  Edward  at"  last 
approached  Mrs.  Aston,  and  said,  "  Can  I  see  Mary 
fora  few  minutes  before  I  go?"  —  A  slight  colour 
rose  in  his  cheek,  but  the  sad  expression  of  his  face 
was  unchanged  when  he  said,  "  It  would  be  childish 
in  me,  dear  Mrs.  Aston,  to  suppose  that  you  are 
ignorant  of  my  feelings.  But,"  he  added,  the  flush 
of  pride  heightening  his  colour  as  he  spoke,  "  I  be 
lieve  you  know  me  too  well  to  fear  that,  unskilled  in 
affairs  as  I  am,  and  with  little  reason  from  my  cast  of 
character  for  hope  of  success,  I  can  be  so  weak  or 
selfish  as  to  bind  another  to  me  in  my  evil  fortunes." 

"  I  need  not  answer  that,  Mr.  Shirley."  The  tears 
filled  her  eyes  as  she  put  out  her  hand  once  more  and 
gave  him  her  blessing.  She  left  the  room,  and  meet 
ing  Mary,  told  her  that  Edward  was  below. 

He  was  walking  the  room  with  a  hurried  step  as 
Mary  entered.  She  attempted  to  go  towards  him, 
but  her  frame  shook,  and  she  tottered  towards  a  chair. 
He  sprung  forward  and  caught  her  before  she  sunk  to 
the  floor.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  and  her  eye 
for  a  moment  glazed.  The  sound  of  his  voice  recall 
ed  her  senses,  but  as  she  raised  her  head,  there  was 
a  wild  and  haggard  look  of  misery  in  his  countenance 
that  made  her  shudder,  and  she  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hand.  —  "  Do  you  shrink  from  me  Mary  ?  "  (<  O! 
no,  no,  Edward.  But  do  not,  do  not  look  so  strangely 
on  me.  Look  as  calm  and  kind  as  you  spoke  then, 
and  I  will  never  turn  from  you."  —  Her  head  fell 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  she  sobbed  audibly.  —  Ed 
ward's  face  was  turned  upward;  his  mouth  moved 


£56  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

convulsively  —  he  would  have  prayed  aloud  for  bless 
ing  and  comfort  on  her.  An  inarticulate  sound  was 
all  that  reached  Mary's  ear.  She  raised  her  head 
suddenly  and  gazed  upon  his  face.  How  was  it 
changed!  Affliction  had  not  left  it,  but  there  was  a 
brightness,  a  rapture  in  it,  which  she  could  almost 
have  worshipped.  It  was  one  of  those  passing  exalta 
tions  of  the  spirit  which  sometimes  in  our  misery  lift 
us  for  a  moment  above  the  earth.  It  left  him,  and 
his  countenance  fell.  "  Is  it  gone,  is  it  gone?  "  cried 
Mary;  ce  and  is  there  no  comfort  left  us? " 

"  None;  none,  at  least  for  me,  in  this  world." 
"  O,  do  not  add  to  my  misery,  Edward,  by  being 
ungenerous  to  me.     Do  not  say  that  I  can  change  and 
find  comfort,  when  you  cannot." 

««  Forgive  me,  Mary,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind. 
I  scarce  know  what  I  say  —  my  brain  has  been  sadly 
bewildered  with  what  I  have  gone  through  in  a  few 
short  days.  But  this  parting  would  not,  you  know  it 
would  not  be  so  hard  to  me,  could  I  believe  you  a 
creature  made  to  change.  Sit  down  by  me  and  hear 
me  a  moment,  and  then  I  must  leave  you."  —  He 
spoke  so  low  and  with  so  much  effort  that  his  voice 
was  scarcely  audible;  yet  there  was  something  fear 
fully  determined  in  it.  —  "I  cannot  blame  myself  for 
having  given  way  so  far  to  my  feelings  to-night.  After 
what  passed  between  us  when  we  last  met,  Mary,  it 
would  have  been  unmanly,  it  would  have  been  a  base 
insult  to  the  delicacy  of  your  character,  for  me  to 
have  treated  you  otherwise  now  than  if  you  had  ac 
knowledged  a  return  of  my  love  for  you.  —  I  have 
told  my  father  —  I  scarce  know  what  I  have  told  him. 
Your  mother  knows  all.  And  here,  —  all  must  end 
here.  We  must  part,  Mary !" 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  257 

"All?     Then  all  is  to  be  as  though  it  had  never 
been.     Say  you  so,  Edward?  " 

"Do  not  mistake  me,  Mary;_we  must  not  part  in 
unkindness.     There  is  enough  of  woe  without  that. 
Though  I  will  not  give  over  without  a  hard  and  long 
struggle,  yet  I  am  poor  now,  and  something  tells  me, 
that  with  all  my  efforts,  I  shall  die  so.     The  seal  is 
on  me,  and  I  shall  carry  it  to  my  grave.     I  hope,  I 
hope  it  is  not  far  off.     Could  I  but  see  you  happy,'  it 
would  be  some  consolation  to  me.     No,  no,  it  would 
not.    I  could  not  bear  that  all  which  I  have  dwelt  upon 
as  so  peculiar  and  lovely  in  your   character  should 
change,  even  to  relieve  you  from  what  you  suffer.   Yet 
you  must  not  be  bound  to  me  by  any  understanding 
between  us.     I  know  there  is  that  in  you  which  will 
always  make  me  dear  to  you.    Surely  I  need  not  speak 
of  myself, —  but,  I  see  it!    You  will  never  be  mine!" 
"  Are  we  to  meet  each  other  no  more  then?     Are 
we  to  live  only  in  the  memory  of  each  other,  and 
without  hope?     I  will  be  sincere  with  you,  Edward, 
and  will  not  add  to  what  you  suffer,  by  saying  that 
you  could  not  make  this  sacrifice,  did  it  cost  you 
what  you  tell  me  it  does.     I  know,"  said  she,  raising 
her   eyes  to  his  with  a  look   of  confidence,    "  the 
struggle  will  be  as  hard  to  you,  and  endure  as  long, 
as  with  me.     I  could  not  say  more.     Miserable  as  it 
will  make  us,  I  know  that  your  feeling  is  grounded  in 
honour.     And  though  it  may  seem  to  have  connected 
with  it  a  doubt  whether  time  and  absence  may  not 
change  my  love  for  you,  I  could  not  wrong  you  so 
much  as  to  think  you  could  be  so  suspicious  of  me.     I 
know  you  better,  Edward,  indeed  I  do." 

'  This  is  noble  and  generous  in  you,  Mary,"  said 
he,  pressing  her  to  his  heart.     "  I  did  not  look  for  all 
17 


258  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

this,  even  from  you.  How  can  I  part  from  you !  —Yet 
I  must  —  It  must  be  done  now,"  he  cried,  starting  sud 
denly  from  her.  In  an  instant  he  was  ready.  As  he 
turned,  she  came  to  him.  There  was  a  hopeless  mis 
ery  in  her  face.  She  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  hung  powerless  upon  him  as  he  held  her  to  his 
bosom. 

"Mary!  Mary!"  he  repeated.  She  made  no  an 
swer.  The  wind  drove  violently  against  the  window, 
and  the  rain  dashed  against  it  like  a  flood.  She  shiv 
ered  as  if  the  cold  blast  struck  her.  "Must  he  go, 
and  in  the  storm  and  rain  too,"  murmured  she  to  her 
self — -At  length  she  raised  herself  a  little.  —  "  Do 
not  fear  for  me,  Edward; — it  is  past, —  I  am  better 
now.  Go!  go!"  He  stood  for  a  moment  —  he  would 
have  said  something — it  was  all  in  vain.  He  caught 
her  madly  to  him,  and  then  darting  from  her,  left  the 
house. 

Mrs.  Aston  heard  the  door  shut  after  him.  She 
went  down  to  her  daughter,  and  found  her  sitting, 
leaning  forward  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  door.  She 
did  not  move  them  as  her  mother  entered;  and  there 
was  a  stupor  over  her  countenance.  Mrs.  Aston 
took  her  by  the  hand,  but  she  did  not  appear  to  heed 
it.  —  k'  You  must  go  to  bed,"  said  her  mother,  putting 
her  arm  round  her  and  gently  raising  her  from  the 
chair.  She  made  no  answer,  but  suffered  herself  to 
be  partly  carried  to  her  chamber.  When  she  was  in 
bed.  her  mother  sat  down  by  her;  but  she  seemed  not 
to  notice  it;  and  presently  fell  asleep,  as  if  unconscious 
of  what  had  happened. 

The  night  was  so  dark  that  the  atmosphere  was 
like  some  deep  black  body  directly  before  the  eye. 
Edward  hurried  forward  down  the  avenue.  The  trees. 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  259 

which  raved  and  roared  in  the  wind  like  fiends  of  the 
storm,  served  to  guide  him  by  their  sound.  As  he 
quitted  them,  and  their  noise  died  gradually  in  the 
distance,  he  groped  his  way  homeward.  He  reached 
the  house  with  a  mind  as  bewildered  as  in  a  fearful 
dream.  The  instant  change  from  the  tumult  and  up 
roar  of  the  storm  to  the  stillness  and  calm  within 
doors,  brought  back  what  had  past,  with  terrible  sud 
denness.  He  went  into  the  room  where  Jacob  was 
sitting,  waiting  for  him,  and  taking  up  a  lamp,  passed 
by  without  looking  at  him.  —  "Poor  Mr.  Edward," 
said  Jacob  to  himself,  as  he  took  the  remaining  light 
to  go  to  bed;  "  it  is  hard  that  you,  who  are  so  good 
should  suffer  so." 

Edward  could  not  go  to  rest.     He  went  into  his 
father's  study,  and  then  from  one  room  to  another, 
traversing  the  whole  house.     He  was  for  a  while  in 
that  vague  and  idle  state  which  the  mind  is  thrown 
into  at  intervals,   in  extreme  suffering,  taking  notice 
of  trifles,  and  remembering  a  multitude  of  unmeaning 
things,  while  it  is  unconscious  of  the  affliction  which 
is  ready  to  press  again  upon  it.     His  eyes  wandered 
vacantly  over  the  naked  walls,  till  they  at  last  rested 
on  the  discoloured  places   where    the    pictures    had 
hung.     He  was  not  sensible  at  first  at  what  he  was 
looking;  but  his  mind  was  by  degrees  moved,  and  he 
was  presently  brought  again  to  the  recollection  of  his 
condition.     If  the  earth  had  been  swept  of  every  liv 
ing  thing  but  himself,  the  sense  of  desertion    could 
not  have  weighed  heavier  upon  him.     He  passed  on 
to  his  chamber;  the  wind  moaned  in  the  .chimneys; 
and  as  he  trod  over  the  bare  floors,  the  empty  house 
was  filled  with  the  sharp  echoes  of  his  steps,  which 
seemed  to  chatter  and  mock  at  him. 


£60  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

The  next  morning  he  began  his  journey.  The 
violence  of  the  storm  was  over,  but  it  was  a  dull,  driz 
zly  day.  He  passed  it  in  silence,  busy  with  his  melan 
choly  thoughts.  He  took  little  notice  of  what  was 
about  him.  The  home  of  Mary  Aston,  as  he  had 
seen  it  in  storm  and  sunshine,  was  in  his  mind.  He 
thought  of  her  deep  love  for  him,  her  serious  and  un 
changing  mind,  her  frank  and  confiding  looks  and 
manner  towards  him.  He  would  have  laid  down  his 
life  to  give  her  that  peace  which  was  hers  before 
she  knew  him, — he  would  have  done  more  —  he 
would  have  dragged  on  a  life  of  misery. 

Jacob  spoke  the  first  word  that  was  uttered.  — "  We 
are  half  through  our  journey,  Sir.  I  know  it  by  the 
wood  just  ahead  of  us."  —  Edward  looked  out  upon 
the  wood,  by  way  of  answer  to  Jacob.  It  was  now 
autumn,  and  the  leaves  in  all  their  gaudy  and  varied 
colours,  hung  dripping  and  flagging  in  the  damp  air. 
It  seemed  a  cruel  taunt  upon  the  gay  hopes  and  forced 
mirth  of  the  world.  Edward  shut  his  eyes  upon  the 
sight,  heart-sick.  There  was  none  of  the  spirit  of 
scorn  in  him;  he  felt  it  rather  as  an  emblem  of  his 
own  withered  joys.  The  day  dragged  on  heavily; 
and  he  reached  his  new  home  about  dark,  tired  in 
body  and  mind. 

One  who  had  seen  him  when  he  met  the  family, 
would  have  known  little  of  what  his  inward  suffer 
ings  were.  Beside  his  aversion  to  discovering  his 
deeper  feelings,  even  to  his  own  family,  he  was  con 
scious  of  the  duty  upon  him  to  strengthen  the  forti 
tude  of  his  parents.  His  endeavours  were  of  little 
benefit  to  his  father.  Mr.  Shirley  was  of  a  high,  rest 
less  spirit;  and  his  sudden  fall  from  wealth  and  dis 
tinction  and  the  stir  of  society,  heated  his  warm  tern- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  261 

perament,  and  he  died  of  a  violent  fever,  after  a  few 
months'  illness  Edward  was  as  a  nurse  to  his  father 
through  his  sickness;  and  after  Mr.  Shirley's  death, 
was  as  kind  and  attentive  to  his  mother,  and  as  anx 
ious  about  every  little  thing  which  he  thought  would 
turn  away  her  mind  from  her  afflictions,  as  if  his  spirit 
hag!  been  free  of  all  trouble,  except  as  it  concerned  her. 
Harriet  spoke  of  it  in  a  letter,  in  answer  to  one  she 
had  received  from  Mary,  not  long  after  Mr.  Shirley's 
death.  —  "My  mother  feels  his  kindness  deeply. 
She  cannot  speak  of  it  to  me,  without  shedding  tears. 
He  is  soon  to  leave  us.  I  do  not  know  how  my 
mother  will  bear  his  departure.  Something,  all  the 
while,  is  making  him  secretly  miserable.  I  can  only 
conjecture  what  has  taken  place,  for  your  letter  reveals 
nothing,  and  his  is  so  sacred  a  melancholy,  that  I 
dare  not  break  in  upon  it." 

These  exertions  were  for  Edward's  good.  For 
sensitive  minds  are  prone  to  a  melancholy,  which  may 
in  the  end  weaken  the  intellect,  unless  they  have 
some  object  to  engage  them,  and  give  action  to  the 
affections. 

The  winter  was  gloomy  and  cold,  the  spring  open 
ed  late,  and  the  weather  continued  raw  and  uncom 
fortable,  and  there  appeared  to  be  a  sympathizing  de 
jection  throughout  every  thing  in  nature.  The  time 
came  for  Edward's  departure,  and  he  prepared  to 
leave  home.  Though  he  had  sustained  so  hard  a 
struggle  in  parting  with  Mary,  it  was  not  because  he 
thought,  for  a  moment,  of  sitting  down  in  hopeless 
inaction;  but  his  father's  sickness  and  death  had  pre 
vented  his  putting  his  plans  in  immediate  execution. 

In  the  midst  of  this  dreariness  and  dejection,  a  re 
lation  of  Mrs.  Shirley's  returned  from  abroad,  after 


262  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

an  absence  of  several  years.  This  gentleman's  name 
was  Pennington.  Though  much  older  than  Edward's 
father,  they  were  many  years  fast  friends.  Unfor 
tunately,  some  trifling  controversy  took  place  be 
tween  them;  and  both  having  a  little  too  much  pride, 
and  enough  of  the  punctilious  character  which  was 
so  marked  in  the  old-fashioned  gentry,  a  hasty  alter 
cation  ended  in  a  lasting  separation ;  for  neither  of  1  hem 
could  think  of  making  advances  toward  a  reconcilia 
tion.  Though  this  was  a  cause  of  mutual  uneasiness, 
and  each  in  a  short  time  felt  as  strong  a  regard  and 
attachment  to  the  other  as  ever,  Mr.  Pennington 
went  abroad  on  some  commercial  speculations,  with 
out  their  bidding  each  other  farewell.  Edward's 
father  was  too  proud  to  suffer  his  old  friend  to  be 
made  acquainted  with  his  difficulties.  He  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  the  obligation  which  he  knew  he 
should  be  laid  under,  were  his  circumstances  made 
known  to  the  kind-hearted  Mr.  Pennington. — "It 
was  my  hasty  temper,"  said  Mr.  Shirley  to  his  son, 
a  little  before  his  death,  "which  made  the  breach 
between  us.  I  have  stood  out  foolishly  against  a 
reconciliation;  and  repentance  comes  too  late." 

Mr.  Pennington  was  much  affected  on  his  arrival 
in  the  country,  at  hearing  of  Mr.  Shirley's  loss  of 
property,  and  death.  He  wrote  immediately  to  Mrs. 
Shirley,  and  spoke  in  the  most  delicate  manner  of  the 
regret  and  self-reproach  he  felt  in  having  suffered 
any  criminal  pride  on  his  part,  to  separate  him  from  a 
man  for  whom  he  had  always  had  so  great  esteem  and 
friendship.  He  expressed  the  earnest  wish  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  visit  the  family,  and  to  atone  for 
the  past,  so  far  as  was  now  left  to  him,  by  every  mark 
of  kindness  and  regard  which  he  could  pay. 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  263 

He  arrived  in  a  few  days,  and  was  received  as  one 
of  his  character  deserved  to  be.  Edward  and  Harriet 
were  delighted  with  him.  Though  a  man  of  deep 
feelings,  he  had  an  energetic  and  clear  mind;  and  at 
the  same  time  that  he  was  not  forgetful,  or  careless 
of  the  loss  of  friends,  or  the  sufferings  of  others,  he 
was  possessed  of  that  practical  philosophy,  which  by 
a  constant  aim  at  the  improvement  and  happiness  of 
those  about  us,  begets  healthful  activity  of  mind,  and 
an  habitual  cheerfulness  of  the  spirits.  Although  he 
had  been  so  long  abroad,  he  had  lost  nothing  of  his 
former  character;  and  his  snuff-coloured,  broad-skirted 
coat,  waistcoat-flaps,  and  ample  silver  shoe-buckles, 
and  long,  golden-headed  cane,  showed  him  as  little 
changed  in  dress.  His  address  had  the  courtly  for 
mality  of  the  old  school —  not  a  mere  cumbersome 
ceremony,  because  it  was  made  up  of  so  delicate  and 
respectful  regards  to  others'  feelings,  that  with  all  its 
manner,  it  seemed  a  simple  effluence  of  the  heart. 
He  was  altogether  an  excellent  sample  of  an  old-fash 
ioned,  thorough-bred  gentleman. 

As  far  advanced  in  life  as  he  was,  he  had  not  lost 
his  interest  and  sympathy  in  the  feelings  of  the  young; 
and  the  uncommon  cast  of  Edward 's  character,  the 
beautiful  propriety  of  his  manner,  and  the  deference 
which  he  showed  to  age,  won  so  immediately  upon 
the  old  man's  heart,  that  upon  hearing  from  Mrs. 
Shirley  that  her  son  was  about  leaving  home  to  try  his 
fortune,  he  cried  out, —  "  What !  my  friend's  son  turn 
adventurer,  and  I  sitting  at  home  at  my  ease,  with 
nothing  but  my  wealth  to  plague  me  !  No  !  that  must 
never  be.  If  he  loves  the  girl,  he  shall  have  her,  and 
that  without  ever  setting  foot  a  ship-board;  for  they 
tell  me  she  is  worthy  of  him ;  and  that  is  saying  enough 


264  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

for  any  girl,  God  bless  her."  —  Having  made  up  his 
mind,  and  with  his  heart  full  of  the  matter,  with  that 
alacrity  which  belongs  to  a  vigorous  old  man,  he  left 
the  room  immediately  for  the  purpose  of  falling  in  with 
Edward. 

They  met  at  the  outer  door. 

"  You  are  going  to  walk,"  said  Mr.  Pennington. 
"  You  are  rather  a  grave  and  silent  companion,  but. 
as  I  am  a  talkative  old  gentleman,  and  like  to  be 
listened  to,  it  is  so  much  the  better.  Will  you  allow 
me  to  join  you?  " 

"If  you  think  me  worthy  being  a  listener,  sir,  it 
will  give  rne  great  pleasure." 

After  walking  a  little  way  into  a  wood  back  of  the 
house,  Mr.  Pennington  began  speaking  of  his  large 
fortune,  and  his  great  success  in  the  management  of 
it  abroad.  "  I  have  done  with  business,  Mr.  Shirley, 
and  am  growing  so  old  and  lazy,  that  half  my  fortune, 
I  am  afraid,  will  only  be  a  trouble  to  me.  I  have 
been  impertinent  enough  to  seek  out  from  your  mother 
and  sister  the  cause  of  your  low  spirits.  I  depend 
upon  your  forgiveness,  by  telling  you  I  have  that 
will  cure  you."  —  Edward  coloured,  and  was  about 
speaking.  —  "Stop,"  said  Mr.  Pennington,  "you 
forget  your  part,  —  you  are  the  listener.  It  is  I  must 
do  all  the  talking.  I  have  taken  it  into  my  head  to  do 
the  very  thing  your  father  would  have  done  for  a  child 
of  mine,  had  our  situations  been  reversed:  I'm  going 
to  make  you  my  principal  heir.  But  as  I  am  growing 
old,  and  might  in  some  fond  moment  fall  in  love  with 
my  house-keeper,  to  make  you  sure,  I  have  deter 
mined  to  settle  an  annuity  upon  you  this  very  day.  — 
Hold  your  peace,  sir;  I  am  not  done  yet.  —  The 
principal  creditor  took  the  mansion-house  and  furni- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  265 

ture.  He  has  been  bought  out  at  a  good  bargain,  and 
quitted  yesterday.  So  every  thing  is  standing  just  as 
it  did  in  better  days.  I  intended  that  your  mother 
should  have  gone  back  to  the  mansion;  but  as  she  has 
determined  to  occupy  the  small  house  near  it,  you 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  start  offin  the  morning,  and 
take  possession  of  the  homestead.  I  give  you  joy  of 
such  a  fine  girl  as  they  say  Miss  Aston  is.  There  's 
my  hand,  Mr.  Shirley." — Edward  pressed  it,  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears. —  "  Come,  come,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  forcing  a  laugh;  "  't  is  altogether  a  melan 
choly  affair,  I  know ;  but  then,  we  will  try  to  drown  it 
in  a  glass  of  wine  after  dinner.  The  deuse  is  in  it,  if 
I  don't  make  you  drink  with  me  for  once." 

He  turned  offsuddenly  down  a  straggling  foot-path, 
and  left  Edward  so  surprised,  that  he  scarcely  knew 
whether  it  was  joy  or  sorrow  that  so  confounded  his 
senses. 

"Your  brother  is  certainly  dumbfounded,"  said 
Mr.  Pennington,  after  dinner.  "  You  and  I,  Harriet, 
have  had  all  the  talking  thrown  upon  us,  as  usual." 

"  Harriet  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Edward,  "  and  has 
done  her  duty,  as  she  always  does,  in  like  cases." 

"  You  must  excuse  my  brother,  Mr.  Pennington. 
He  is  melancholy  at  the  thought  of  leaving  us.  Cheer 
up,  Edward;  you  sha'n't  long  be  left  all  alone.  We 
shall  be  after  you  in  a  few  days,  to  take  possession  of 
our  new  habitation.  Pray  tell  me,  are  you  and  Jacob 
to  occupy  the  big  house  together,  (like  the  Master  of 
Ravenswood  and  old  Caleb,)  with  Peggy  for  house 
keeper  ?  By  the  by,  Edward,"  (tapping  his  shoulder, 
as  she  ran  by  him  out  of  the  room,)  "  and  before  you 
swallow  that  wine,  glass  and  all,  if  you  chance  to  see 
Miss  Aston,  give  her  my  love,  and  tell  her  we  are 


266  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

coming,   and  hope  to  make  good   neighbours   once 
more. 

"A  madcap,  that  girl,"  said  Mr.  Pennington. 
"  Come,  Mr.  Shirley,  one  glass  to  your  to-morrow's 
journey,  and  I  am  done." 

At  night  Edward  bade  his  mother  good  by,  and 
prepared  for  his  morning's  journey  with  feelings  so 
tumultuous  that  they  were  almost  painful  to  him.  He 
was  stirring  with  the  birds,  and  faithful  Jacob  being 
punctually  at  the  door,  he  sprang  lightly  into  the  car 
riage. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  after  a  shower,  the  sky  of  a 
clear  deep  blue,  and  the  piled  clouds  tinged  in  the  sun. 
The  rain-drops  were  falling  from  the  trees,  like  pearl, 
and  the  blossoms  sailing  gently  down,  and  scattering 
themselves  like  snow-flakes  over  the  grass.  The  air 
was  breezy  and  fresh,  filling  the  frame  with  sensations 
of  delight;  and  the  brooks  ran  shining  on,  prattling 
like  young  living  things  noisy  with  joy.  But  an  im 
age  more  beautiful,  and  fairer  than  all  these,  was 
before  Edward's  eyes.  He  saw  it  between  the  green 
trees,  and  resting  upon  the  white  clouds;  its  voice  was 
in  the  clouds,  and  by  the  sides  of  the  rocks.  There 
are  chosen  hours,  when  some  men  have  a  conscious 
ness  of  more  life  than  falls  to  others  in  a  multitude  of 
years.  Edward's  fine  steeds  swept  quickly  round  the 
turnings  of  the  road;  there  was  a  swift  and  constant 
changing  of  objects  going  on;  every  thing  upon  the 
earth  seemed  in  action,  and  he  felt  as  if  there  was  a 
spirit  of  motion  within  him,  bearing  him  forward. 

Long  before  sunset,  they  began  to  enter  upon  the 
scenery  familiar  to  them.  They  soon  came  in  sight 
of  the  house.  It  was  no  longer  gloomy  and  deserted, 
the  doors  locked,  and  shutters  barred;  but  the  win- 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  267 

dows  were  thrown  up,  and  doors  wide  open,  as  if  it 
were  a  holy-day;  and  the  tenants,  and  the  domestics 
who  had  remained  in  the  neighbourhood,  could  be 
seen  pointing  out  to  each  other  the  carnage,  as  it 
wound  up  the  road.  In  a  few  minutes  Edward  sprang 
out  into  the  midst  of  them;  and  there  were  more  glad 
faces  about  him,  than,  a  week  before,  he  could  have 
believed  were  contained  in  the  whole  world.  So  does 
our  state  change  our  notions  of  things. 

When  wishing  joy,  and  *  how  do  ye  do,'  were  over, 
old  Jacob  was  in  the  full  tide  of  narrative,  making  short 
stops  now  and  then, —  which  served  as  reliefs  to  his 
story, —  to  answer  the  little  by-questions  thrown  in  by 
some  impatient  auditor.  As  soon  as  Edward  could 
leave  those  who  had  come  together  at  the  house, 
without  its  putting  a  check  upon  their  merriment, 
he  stole  away,  that  he  might  be  prepared  to  visit 
Mary. 

Soon  after  the  rich  Mr.  Pennington's  return,  there 
had  been  rumours  afloat  that  he  had  bought  the  old 
estate  —  then  others  of  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Shirley ;  and 
when  the  occupant  moved  out,  two  days  before  Ed 
ward's  arrival,  the  story  was  rife,  though  all  matter  of 
guess,  that  Mr.  Pennington  had  restored  the  estate 
to  the  family.  These  and  other  rumours  reached 
Mrs.  Aston's.  Mary  began  to  think  it  not  impossible 
that  some  of  them  might  be  partially  true ;  then  her 
hopes  grew  stronger,  and  with  them  her  fears.  For 
if  accounts  were  true,  why  had  she  not  heard  from 
Edward?  She  never  for  a  moment  doubted  his  affec 
tion. 

As  she  was  sitting  at  the  window,  and  looking 
toward  the  road,  she  heard  two  men,  who  were 
passing  down  the  lane  which  led  by  the  house,  say 


268  EDWARD    AND    MARY. 

something  about  old  Jacob,  and  young  Mr.  Shirley's 
carriage. —  "  He  is  come  then!  "  said  she  aloud,  as 
she  sprang  from  her  seat  and  ran  to  the  door,  as  if  to 
meet  him. —  "  Who  is  come?  "  asked  her  mother. — 
Mary  had  forgotten  at  the  instant  that  her  mother  was 
in  the  room. —  "  No  one,"  she  answered,  in  a  sunken 
voice;  and  hurrying  into  the  opposite  room,  shut  the 
door.  Mrs.  Aston  withdrew  to  her  chamber.  As 
Mary  walked  the  room,  the  fluctuation  of  doubt  and 
hope  was  torture  to  her.  After  a  time  she  grew  more 
composed;  a  light  seemed  to  break  in  upon  her,  and 
hope  became  almost  certainty. 

It  was  about  the  same  hour,  and  the  evening  much 
the  same  with  that  when  Edward  met  Mary  the  first 
time.  He  remembered  it,  as  he  walked  towards  the 
house;  and  delightful  recollections,  mingling  with  his 
expectations,  heightened  them,  and  made  them  more 
real.  Mary  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  through  the 
trees,  at  the  instant  he  saw  her  at  the  window.  They 
both  started  back.  He  then  hurried  eagerly  forward; 
but  she  was  gone.  He  entered  the  house,  and  open 
ing  the  door  of  the  room  suddenly,  Mary  stood  before 
him  motionless  and  pale. —  "  Mary!  "  he  cried. —  The 
blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks  at  the  sound;  she  started 
forward,  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms.  There  was 
a  perfect  stillness.  He  felt  her  heart  beat  as  he  held 
her  to  him.  Nature  at  last  gave  way;  she  sobbed 
out  aloud,  and  in  a  voice  broken  with  a  wild  laugh, 
she  cried  —  "  Is  it  Edward?  And  is  it  true  I  am  his? 
And  are  we  no  more  to  part?  " —  "  You  are,  indeed, 
mine,  now,  Mary — look  at  me,  and  make  it  real  to 
me." —  She  raised  her  head,  her  hands  resting  on  his 
shoulders;  her  eyes  swam  with  tears,  but  a  bright  joy 
broke  through  them,  which  came  from  the  very  soul, 


EDWARD    AND    MARY.  269 

and  her  face  was  all  tremulous  with  the  intenseness 
of  love.  Edward  kissed  away  the  tear  on  her  lid; 
and  as  he  gazed  upon  her  face,  and  fondly  parted  back 
the  hair  from  her  fine  forehead,  tears  started  in  his 
eyes,  answering  to  hers.  It  was  a  moment  too  full  of 
feeling,  for  words. 

When  they  grew  more  calm,  and  Mary  sat  by  him 
with  her  hand  in  his,  he  told  her  hastily  what  his  good 
old  relation  had  done  for  them.  Mary  breathed  out 
a  blessing  upon  him.  Then  turning,  and  looking  up 
in  Edward's  face  —  "  To  remember,"  said  she,  "how 
haggard  and  strange  you  seemed  when  we  parted, 
and  now  to  see  you  look  upon  me  so  fond  and  happy  — 
O,  it  makes  me  forget  myself,  in  my  joy  for  what  you 
feel." 

In  talking  of  the  past  and  giving  utterance  to  the 
present  fulness  of  feeling,  they  forgot  that  the  night 
was  wearing  away,  —  "  It  is  time  for  you  to  go, "said 
Mary,  at  last.  —  "  I  know  it,  the  thought  that  we  are 
to  meet  to-morrow  makes  me,  I  could  almost  say,  more 
than  willing  to  part  now." 

As  they  separated  half  way  down  the  walk,  it  was 
the  happiest  good  night  they  had  ever  bid  each  other. 

Life  now  was  one  deep  and  wide  joy  to  them;  all 
things  that  grew  looked  like  sharers  in  a  common 
delight,  and  a  cheerful  and -sympathizing  benevolence 
made  the  world  appear  as  if  there  were  nothing  but 
gladness  and  good  will  amongst  men.  Their  souls 
seemed  from  day  to  day  to  become  closer  united,  and 
to  be  fast  making,  as  it  were,  but  one  being.  —  It  was 
not  long  before  Mary  became  the  wife  of  Edward. 


PAUL   FELTON. 


— ;  the  sick, 
In  my  mind,  are  covetous  of  more  disease. 

YOUNG. 

From  his  intellect, 

And  from  the  stillness  of  abstracted  thought, 

He  asked  repose.  WORDSWORTH. 

And  fears,  and  fancies,  thick  upon  rae  came  ; 

Dim  sadness,  and  blind  thoughts  I  knew  not  nor  could  name. 

SAME. 

Who  thinks,  and  feels, 
And  recognises  ever  and  anon 
The  breeze  of  Nature  stirring  in  his  soul, 
Why  need  such  man  go  desperately  astray, 
And  nurse  "  the  dreadful  appetite  of  death  ?  "  SAME. 

T)o  not  torment  me  !  SHAKSPEARE. 

Pray,  and  beware  the  foul  fiend.  SAME. 


PAUL  FELTON  was  the  son  of  a  well  educated 
country  gentleman  of  moderate  fortune,  who,  having 
lost  his  wife  early  in  life,  took  upon  himself  the  educa 
tion  of  his  son  and  daughter,  as  a  relief  to  his  melan 
choly,  and  that  he  might  not  be  deprived  of  their 
society. 

The  retired  life  which  the  father  led,  prevented  the 
son's  forming  many  acquaintances,  and  checked  those 
open,  communicative  feelings  which  make  schoolboys 
so  pleasing.  The  serious  and  reserved  manners 


272  PAUL   FELTON. 

which  the  father  had  fallen  into,  rather  from  his  loss, 
than  from  any  thing  native  in  his  disposition,  made  an 
early  impression  on  the  son ;  and  from  childhood  Paul 
was  retired,  silent  and  thoughtful.  His  character  was 
of  a  strong  cast;  and  not  being  left  to  its  free  play 
among  equals,  it  worked  with  a  violence  increased  by 
its  pent  up  and  secret  action. 

The  people  of  the  neighbourhood  were  illiterate 
and  uncouth,  having  for  the  most  part,  that  rough  and 
bold  bearing  which  comes  from  an  union  of  ignorance 
and  independence.  Paul's  distant  manner  appeared 
to  them  like  an  assumption  of  superiority ;  and  on  all 
occasions  which  offered,  they  were  careful  to  show 
their  dislike  of  it.  This  not  only  increased  his  reserve, 
but  gave  to  his  mind  a  habit  of  looking  on  strangers 
as  in  some  sort  enemies;  and  when  passing  any  one 
who  was  not  a  familiar,  he  felt  as  if  there  were  some 
thing  like  mutual  hostility  between  them.  With  all 
this  he  had  good  affections;  and  when  looking  out 
from  his  solitude,  upon  the  easy  and  mingling  cheerful 
ness  of  some,  and  the  strong  attachments  which  here 
and  there  bound  others  fast  together,  he  saw  how 
beautiful  was  that  which  was  companionable  and  kind 
in  the  heart  of  man,  and  his  eye  rested  on  it,  and  his 
soul  longed  after  it. 

So  evil,  however,  is  the  nature  of  men,  that  almost 
the  love  of  what  is  excellent  may  lead  us  astray,  if 
we  do  not  take  heed  to  the  way  in  which  we  seek  it ; 
and  we  may  see,  and  understand,  and  wish  for  it,  till 
we  come  to  envy  it  in  another:  we  may  gaze  upon  a 
character  that  is  fair,  and  elevated,  and  happy,  till  we 
feel  its  very  goodness  stirring  in  us  dislike.  Paul  had 
no  settled  ill-will  towards  any  one;  though,  perhaps, 
there  was  mingled  with  his  repining,  somewhat  of  envy 
at  the  happiness  and  ease  of  mind  in  others. 


PAUL    FELTON.  273 

As  he  advanced  in  life  his  passions  waxed  stronger, 
and  he  craved  an  object  about  which  they  might  live 
and  grow.     His  retired  habits,  however,  had  left  him 
without  any  of  that  careless  confidence  which  in  so 
wonderful  a  manner  helps  along  the  men  of  the  world; 
and  with  a  consciousness  of  his  own  powers,  he  was 
distrustful  of  his  ability  to  make  them  known,  and  of 
the  estimate  which  others  would  put  upon  them.     This 
same  distrust  ran  into  all  his   feelings;  and  with   a 
character  to  love  earnestly  and  tenderly,  the  fear  that 
his  personal  appearance  and  somewhat  awkward  man 
ners  deprived  him  of  the  power  of  showing  what  his 
heart  was  susceptible  of,  made  him  almost  miserable 
at  the  thought  that  such  feelings  were  ever  given  to 
him.  —  "  When  I  am  tired  of  solitude,"  he  would  say, 
"  and  my  heart  aches  with  the  void  I  feel,  shall  that 
which  I  am  conscious  of  within  me  as  beautiful  and 
true,  be  made  scoff  of  by  another,  because  I  have  not 
the  fair  form  and  manner  of  other  men,  and  my  tongue 
cannot  so  well  tell  what  is  within  me?  —  Shall  all  that 
is  sincere  in  me  be  questioned,  or  looked  on  with  in 
difference?  "     So  far  had  even  his  good  affections  be 
come  a  torment  to  him,  that  all  was  at  war  and  in  op 
position  in  his  character.     At  one  time  he  was  busy 
in  scornful  speculation  and  doubt  upon  his  passions; 
and  at  another,  he  would  urge  them  on,  and  give  them 
rein,  that  he  might  feel  the  self-torture  they  would 
bring.     No  one  thing  was  left  to  its  natural  play — as 
making  a  part  of  his  daily  life  — but  existed  in  excess, 
or  not  at  all.     This  change  and  opposition  broke  up 
that  settled  state  in  which  the  sense  of  truth  puts  us, 
and  left  him  disturbed;  till  at  last  his  mind  seemed 
given  for  little  else,  but  to  speculate  upon  his  feel 
ings,  to  part  or  unite  them,  to  quell  or  inflame  them. 
18 


274  PAUL    FELTON. 

He  who  so  far  questions  his  own  nature,  will  ques 
tion  every  thing;  and  bring  the  most  pain  and  misery 
on  those  who  are  dearest  to  him;  because  he  is  for 
ever  asking  for  an  assurance  of  returned  affections, 
and  seeking  that  assurance  in  the  power  he  can  exert 
over  the  object  he  loves.  He  inflicts  his  tortures,  and 
still  doubts;  and  goes  on  to  the  end,  working  his  own 
misery,  and  seeing  the  object  of  which  he  is  most  fond, 
perishing,  like  himself,  the  victim  of  his  diseased 
cravings. 

Paul  was  nearly  alone  in  the  world.     His  father 
was  for  the  most  part  lost  in  his  own  thoughts.     His 
sister,  though  lively  and  talkative,  had  neither  depth 
of  feeling,  nor  strength  of  intellect  enough  for   him. 
Much  action  and  sound  to  little  purpose  wore    on 
his  spirit,  and  though  he  was  not  without  affection 
for  her,  a  sneer  would  sometimes  escape  him  in  his 
impatience.     He  would  shut  himself  up  in  his  cham 
ber,  or  without  so  much  as  a  dog  for  a  companion, 
wander  off  where  no  human  being  was  to  be  met  with. 
He  had  now  lived  many  years  a  self-tormentor, and 
without  communion  with  any  one  to  relieve  his  mind, 
when  Esther  Waring,  the  daughter  of  his    father's 
friend,  came  on  a  visit  to  Paul's  sister.     Her  dispo 
sition  was  cheerful  and  social;  and  she  had  an  active, 
thoughtful  mind,  which  drew  and  fixed  the  attention 
of  those  with  whom  she  talked.     Her  feelings  were 
quick  and  kind,  and  the  tenor  of  her  thinking  and  re 
marks  showed  that  they  were  deep.     Her  black  hair 
'  fell  round  her  dark,  quiet  eyes,  which  seemed  to  rest 
on  what  the  mind  was  showing  them;   and  when  she 
spoke,  a  light  shone  through  them  from  the  very  re 
cesses    of  the  soul,  as  the  stars  shoot  up  from  the 
depths  of  the  waters,  brightening  what  they  shine 


275 

through.  Her  form  was  beautifully  moulded;  and 
her  movements  had  that  pliableness  and  delicacy  which 
so  touch  and  interest  men  of  grave  or  melancholy 
natures. 

Paul  would  often  ramble  among  the  hills,  dwelling 
upon  his  own  thoughts,  and  seeking  for  sympathy  in 
nature;  but  she  did  not  always  answer  him;  and  then 
it  was  that  he  stood  like  a  withered  thing  amid  her 
fresh  and  living  beauty.  Sometimes  he  would  sit 
alone  on  one  of  the  peaks  in  the  chain  of  the  neigh 
bouring  hills,  and  look  out  on  the  country  beneath 
him,  as  if  imploring  to  be  taken  to  a  share  of  the  joy 
which  it  seemed  sensible  to,  as  it  lay  in  the  sunshine. 
He  would  call,  in  the  spirit,  to  the  birds  that  passed 
over  him,  and  to  the  stream  that  wound  away,  till  lost 
in  the  common  brightness  of  the  day,  to  stay  and  com 
fort  him.  They  heard  him  not,  but  left  him  to  cares, 
and  the  waste  of  time,  and  his  own  thoughts. 

It  was  after  one  of  these  melancholy  days  that  he 
returned  home  about  dusk,  and  not  having  heard  of 
the  arrival  of  a  stranger,  entered  the  parlour  with  a 
gloomy  countenance,  his  eyes  cast  down,  his  full  black 
eyebrows  bent  together,  and  his  lips  moving,  as  if  he 
were  lost  in  talk  with  himself.  Without  observing 
that  there  was  any  one  in  the  room,  he  walked  directly 
to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out  on  the  evenino- 
sky.  His  powerful  face  and  the  characteristic  move 
ment  of  his  body  attracted  the  attention  of  Esther  ; 
and  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  unconsciously  as  he  stood 
partly  turned  from  her.  He  was  below  the  common 
height,  with  a  person  of  a  somewhat  heavy  mould, 
square,  and  muscular ;  but  he  had  the  air  and  bearing  of 
one  of  a  deep,  resolute  and  thoughtful  mind  — as  be 
ing  one  of  those  men,  whom,  if  a  woman  loves  at  all, 
she  loves  with  the  devotion  of  a  martyr. 


276  PAUL    FELTON. 

"  Paul!"  said  his  father.  —  "  Sir?"  answered  Paul, 
without  turning  his  head.  —  "  Here  is  my  old  friend's 
daughter,  Miss  Waring."  —  Little  used  to  society, 
and  watchful  lest  others  should  mark  his  defects,  his 
manner,  when  in  company,  was  at  all  times  somewhat 
embarrassed.  He  turned,  and  saw  the  fair  face  of 
Esther.  It  was  slightly  flushed;  and  the  light  which 
filled  her  eye  and  played  over  her  countenance,  broke 
upon  the  gloomy  face  of  Paul,  and  touched  the  slug 
gish  spirit  within  him  with  a  sensation  of  warmth  and 
life.  He  made  such  apology  for  his  inattention  as  his 
sudden  introduction  would  allow  of.  His  manner  was 
constrained,  and  a  little  awkward.  It  was,  however, 
the  constraint  of  that  certain  sensitiveness  which  gives 
more  interest  and  delight  than  the  sort  of  acquired, 
conventional  ease  and  grace  so  common  in  the  world. 

A  country  tea-table  is  a  social  affair;  and  Paul  soon 
lost  a  little  of  his  taciturnity.  The  presence  of  an 
agreeable  stranger  is  a  great  restorer  of  the  spirits 
to  those  who  are  little  in  the  world;  and  the  mixture 
of  the  playful  and  the  serious  in  Esther's  conversation, 
and  the  freshness  which  we  feel  coming  from  a  new 
mind,  kept  Paul  till  a  late  hour  in  the  parlour.  His 
next  day's  walk  was  somewhat  shortened,  and  the  regu 
lar  tread  of  his  step,  as  he  paced  his  chamber,  was  not 
heard  so  long,  and  was  often  broken.  It  was  evident 
that  the  settled  gloom  of  the  mind  was  from  day  to 
day  breaking  up,  new  thoughts  and  objects  coming  in, 
and  that  which  had  bound  the  soul  like  ice,  melting 
and  loosening  and  passing  off.  He  continued  his  walks 
more  from  habit  than  to  relieve  the  intenseness  of  his 
thoughts;  and  his  path  lay  less  over  the  heath  and 
sand  than  usual;  and  more  among  the  grass,  and  trees, 
and  flowers;  his  sense  of  the  beautiful  was  becoming 


PAUL   FELTON.  277 

more  wakeful,  and  the  sternness  of  his   nature   was 
softening. 

The  change  went  on  so  gradually  and  secretly, 
that  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  was  conscious  any 
was  taking  place.  After  breakfast  he  loitered  in  the 
parlour,  and  his  evening  passed  quietly  away  in  mild 
conversation  with  Esther.  The  beautiful  blending  of 
the  thoughtful  and  gay  in  her  manner  and  remarks 
played  on  him  like  sun  and  shade  on  the  earth  beneath 
a  tree;  and  tranquillizing  and  gentle  emotions  were 
stealing  into  him  unawares. 

Nor  was  it  he  alone  whose  heart  was  touched. 
Paul  was  not  a  man  whom  a  woman  could  be  long 
with,  and  remain  indifferent  to.  The  strength  of  pas 
sion  and  intellect  so  distinctly  marked  in  his  features, 
in  the  movements  of  the  face,  and  in  every  gesture  — 
the  deep,  rich,  mellow  tone  of  his  voice,  with  a  cer 
tain  mysterious  seriousness  over  the  whole,  excited 
a  restless  curiosity  to  get  more  into  his  character; 
and  a  woman  who  is  at  the  trouble  of  prying  into  the 
constitution  of  a  man's  heart  and  mind,  is  in  great 
danger  of  falling  in  love  with  him  for  her  pains.  Es 
ther  did  not  make  this  reflection  when  she  began;  and 
so  taken  up  was  she  in  the  pursuit,  that  she  never 
once  thought  what  it  might  end  in,  nor  of  turning 
back. 

Paul  was  differently  educated  from  the  run  of  men; 
his  father  disliked  the  modern  system,  and,  so,  Paul's 
mind  was  no  encyclopedia,  nor  book  of  general  refer 
ence.  He  read  not  a  great  deal,  but  with  much  care ; 
and  his  reading  lay  back  among  original  thinkers,  and 
those  who  were  almost  supernaturally  versed  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  heart  of  man.  Their  clear  and  direct 
manner  of  uttering  their  thoughts  had  given  a  dis- 


278  PAUL    FELTON. 

tinctness  to  his  opinions,  and  a  plain  way  of  express 
ing  them;  and  what  he  had  to  say  savoured  of  in 
dividuality  and  reflection.  He  was  a  man  precisely 
calculated  to  interest  a  woman  of  feeling  and  good 
sense,  who  had  grown  tired  of  the  elegant  and  in 
definite. 

He  never  thought  of  the  material  world  as  formed 
on  purpose  to  be  put  into  a  crucible;  nor  did  he 
analyze  it  and  talk  upon  it,  as  if  he  knew  quite  as 
much  about  it  as  He  who  made  it.  To  him  it  was  a 
grand  and  beautiful  mystery  —  in  his  better  moments, 
a  holy  one.  It  was  power,  and  intellect,  and  love, 
made  visible,  calling  out  the  sympathies  of  his  being, 
and  causing  him  to  feel  the  living  Presence  through 
out  the  whole.  Material  became  intellectual  beauty 
v  with  him;  he  was  as  a  part  of  the  great  universe,  and 
all  he  looked  upon,  or  thought  on,  was  in  some  way 
connected  with  his  own  mind  and  heart.  The  con 
versation  of  such  a  man,  (begin  where  it  might) 
always  tending  homeward  to  the  bosom,  was  not  likely 
to  pass  from  a  woman  like  Esther,  without  leaving 
some  thoughts  which  would  be  dear  to  her,  to  mingle 
with  her  own,  or  without  raising  emotions  which  she 
would  love  to  cherish. 

Two  minds  of  a  musing  cast  will  have  some  valued 
feelings  and  sentiments,  which  will  soon  make  an  in- 
tergrowth  and  become  bound  together.  Where  this 
happens  in  reserved  minds,  it  goes  on  so  secretly,  and 
spreads  so  widely  before  it  is  found  out,  that  when  at 
last  one  thought  or  passion  is  touched  by  some  little 
circumstance,  or  word,  or  look,  a  sympathizing  feel 
ing  runs  through  the  whole;  and  they  who  had  not 
before  intimated  or  known  that  they  loved,  find  them 
selves  in  full  and  familiar  union,  with  one  heart  and 
one  beingr. 


PAUL    FELTON.  279 

Esther's  visit  had  now  continued  so  long,  that  she 
was  sensible  it  was  proper  for  her  to  return  home,  un 
less  urged  to  remain;  but  it  so  happened  that  she 
never  thought  of  going,  without  at  the  same  time 
thinking  of  Paul;  and  with  that  came  a  procrastinating, 
lingering  spirit.  There  was  always  something  hap 
pening  which  was  reason  enough  for  her  putting  off 
the  mention  of  the  affair.  She  would  half  persuade 
herself  that  Paul  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  delay; 
but  her  heart  would  beat  quicker,  and  then  she  would 
feel  that  she  was  trying  to  deceive  herself.  "  There 
is  something  strangely  inscrutable  in  him.  Would  I 
could  see  into  that  sealed  up  heart." 

The  hour  came;  but,  in  spite  of  her  efforts,  her 
voice  was  tremulous  when  she  spoke  of  leaving  the 
family.  Paul  was  sitting  opposite  to  her  at  the  table. 
He  looked  up,  and  his  eyes  met  hers.  The  colour 
came  to  his  cheek:  She  blushed,  and  her  eyes  fell 
beneath  his.  Mr.  Felton  and  his  daughter  protested 
against  her  going. — "Ihope,"  said  Paul  at  last. —  She 
looked  up  at  him  once  more.  He  coloured  deeper 
than  before,  and  was  silent.  It  stung  him  to  the 
quick  that  any  one  should  see  the  struggle  of  his  feel 
ings;  and  he  left  the  room. 

As  he  traversed  his  chamber,  his  step  grew  quicker 
and  quicker,  and  instead  of  gaining  composure,  his 
mind  was  more  and  more  agitated.  He  became  too 
impatient  to  bear  it  any  longer,  and  was  hurrying  out 
to  find  relief  in  the  open  air,  when  he  met  Esther 
coming  from  the  parlour.  Ashamed  to  let  Paul  see 
her  emotion,  she  was  passing  him  with  her  face  turned 
from  him.  —  "The  show  of  concern,"  said  Paul, 
without  calling  her  by  name  —  Esther  stopped  — 
"  the  show  of  concern  for  us,  in  some,  may  seem  im- 


280  PAUL   FELTON. 

pertinent,  and  offend  us  more  than  their  indifference 
or  dislike.  If  I  was  too  obtrusive  just  now,  let  me 
hope  for  your  forgiveness." 

"Mr.  Felton  officious!  And  can  he  think  me  so 
frivolous  or  vain  a  girl  as  not  to  feel  any  token  of  re 
gard  from  him  a  cause  for  self-esteem?" 

"I  did  not  humble  myself  to  extort  praise,  Miss 
Waring;  it  is  enough  if  I  have  not  offended." 

"Neither  did  I  mean  it  as  praise;  I  was  not  so 
weak  as  to  think  your  self-approval  needed  my  good 
opinion  to  support  it." 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  replied  Paul.  "I 
spoke  in  true  humility,  and  not  in  pride.  Not  to  have 
offended  you  was  all  I  dared  look  for." 

"  Has  it  ever  seemed  to  you  that  any  of  your  many 
notices  were  other  than  grateful  to  me?  If  so,  my 
manner  but  poorly  expresses  what  I  feel.  Go  where 
I  may,  Mr.  Felton,  I  shall  remember  how  much  my 
mind  owes  to  you  —  how  much  the  thoughts  you  have 
given  it  have  done  for  my  heart.  And  I  hope  it  is 
not  in  rny  disposition  to  be  thankless  for  any  good  I 
may  receive." 

"  Had  I  a  claim,"  answered  Paul,  "  it  is  not  your 
gratitude  I  would  ask  for.  The  heart  that  longs  for 
sympathy  and  finds  it  not,  what  else  can  touch  it?  — 
Forgive  me;  I  know  not  what  I  say.  — To  be  remem 
bered  in  kindness  by  you,  Esther,  shall  be  a  drop  to 
comfort  this  thirsty  soul." 

"And  can  a  soul  large  as  yours,  and  filled  with 
all  things  to  delight  another's  mind,  seem  desolate  to 
you?" 

"  Is  the  mind  enough  to  itself,  think  you,  Esther? 
Or  can  the  imagination  satisfy  the  cravings  here,  at 
the  heart  ?  " 


PAUL   FELTON.  281 

"  The  heart  that  does  crave  fellowship  strongly, 
may  surely  find  it,  if  we  do  not  perversely,  and  for  our 
self-torture  shut  it  out." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  not  every  passer-by  that  I  would 
go  with.  O,  she  must  be  one  so  excellent,  so  much 
above  me!  And  yet  I  would  not  take  her,  did  she 
come  to  me  in  mercy  only.  I  cannot  think  on 't.  For 
me  there  is  no  fellow.  I  must  go  alone,  alone,  through 
this  wide  and  populous  earth,"  he  said,  leaving  her 
suddenly. 

As  he  went  along,  his  eye  past  swiftly  from  one 
object  to  another,  seeking  something  to  rest  upon, 
which  might  fix  his  hurrying  and  disordered  thoughts. 
The  notion  had  fully  possessed  him,  that  he  was  doomed 
to  live  without  sympathy  in  the  world,  that  the  power 
was  denied  him  to  reveal  to  another  what  was  in  his 
heart,  that  his  person,  his  manner,  and  all  which  made 
the  outward  man,  barred  him  from  a  return  of  love; 
and  the  interest  he  thought  Esther  showed  in  him, 
while  it  came  like  an  unlocked  for  joy,  brought  with  it 
doubt,  humiliation  and  pain.  He  imagined  what  he 
must  seem  to  be  to  another,  and  then  distrusted  the 
plainness  and  steadiness  of  her  nature. —  "  There  is 
not  enough  within  them  for  their  minds  to  dwell  upon; 
there  must  be  something  outward  and  near  to  enter 
tain  their  thoughts;  and  their  fickleness  makes  them 
careless  how  poor  it  is,  so  it  will  but  serve  for  the 
time.  She  will  go  back  to  the  world,  and,  among 
showy  and  accomplished  men,  will  smile  secretly  at 
herself,  to  think  that  such  an  one  as  I  am  ever  quick 
ened  a  beat  of  her  heart.  —  Yet  it  may  not  be  so; 
souls  may  hold  communion  hidden  and  mysterious  as 
their  natures.  Can  looks  and  movements  and  voice 
like  hers,  so  blended  in  harmony,  speak  any  thing  but 


282  PAUL    PELTON. 

truth?     Would  that  her  heart  lay  open  like  a  book  to 
me,  that  I  might  read  it  and  be  satisfied!  " 

He  had  walked  on  through  brake  and  over  crum 
bling  moss,  and  was  climbing  up  the  shadowy  side 
of  a  steep  hill,  when,  reaching  its  brow,  the  sweep  of 
the  western  sky  opened  upon  him  in  full  splendor, 
and  he  seemed  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  new  world, 
a  world  of  light  and  glory.  As  he  looked  forward,  all 
that  lay  between  him  and  it  sunk  away,  he  felt  him 
self  expanding  with  the  air,  and  becoming,  as  it 
were,  one  of  the  sons  of  light.  But  the  spirit  that 
lifted  him  up  for  a  moment,  passed  like  a  bright  cloud 
from  him;  a  weight  was  on  his  soul  heavier  than  the 
earth  with  all  its  hills;  and  reality  breathed  upon  him 
like  the  air  of  death.  As  he  stood  on  the  bare  hill 
alone,  and  saw  all  beneath  him  making  a  fair  society,  the 
trees  in  brotherhood:  —  "  Must  I  only,"  he  cried,  "  of 
all  the  works  of  God,  be  an  outcast  ?  "  —  He  looked 
again  upon  the  s*ky;  but  the  quiet  clouds  seemed  to 
him  to  be  telling  of  joy  and  peace  to  each  other. 
He  stood  with  folded  arms,  gazing  on  the  setting  sun. 
"  The  whole  earth  mourns  thy  going,  thou  gladdener 
of  all  things.  Thy  light  is  poured  out  over  it;  thou 
touchest  the  trees  and  the  grass  and  the  rocks,  and 
they  each  answer  thee;  thou  fillest  the  air,  and  sounds 
are  heard  in  it  as  if  coming  forth  from  thy  very  light; 
and  all  mingle  in  thee  as  in  one  common  spirit  of 
cheerfulness  and  love."  —  The  sun  was  now  gone. 
He  set  himself  down  upon  a  stone,  till  the  visionary 
twilight  and  shadows  were  lost  in  the  common  dark 
ness.  There  was  the  same  vagueness  of  purpose  in 
his  mind  as  when  he  left  home,  yet  there  was  less 
tumult  of  the  passions ;  and  gentler  feelings  had  entered 
him.  As  he  turned  to  go  homeward,  the  few  stars 


PAUL    FELTON.  283 

that  were  coming  out  in  the  east  cheered  his  spirit; 
hope  gushed  up  in  his  heart  like  returning  life;  the 
affections  were  in  motion;  and,  for  a  while,  the  sense 
that  he  was  in  fellowship  with  his  kind  thrilled  through 
him  with  rapture. 

Esther  was  at  the  door  when  Paul  returned. — 
"What,  alone?  "  asked  he. 

"  Yes,  you  have  all  deserted  me." 

"  And  can  you  feel  deserted,  Esther,  who  have  the 
company  of  happy  thoughts?  " 

"  All  thoughts  that  we  do  not  share,  in  time  turn 
to  sadness." 

"  They  do  indeed,  or  to  something  worse  than  sad 
ness —  to  discontent  —  almost  to  hate  sometimes." 

"  That  is  a  fearful  sin,  in  the  solitude  of  our  souls 
to  grow  in  evil." 

"  It  makes  us  mad  almost,"  said  he,  his  eyes  shoot 
ing  a  wild  light  on  her.  His  look  and  voice  made  her 
tremble. 

"Mr.  Felton!  what  ails  you?  Can  a  heart  like 
yours  find  no  sympathy  in  all  this  world  ?  Is  there  no 
being  to  share  in  its  goodness  with  you,  and  give  it 
ease? " 

"  And  with  whom  shall  I  find  rest,"  he  asked,  look 
ing  earnestly  on  her. —  Her  eagerness  had  carried  her 
too  far;  she  blushed  deeply,  and  stood  silent  before 
him. — The  struggle  with  himself  was  a  severe  one; 
he  had  never  laid  open  one  deep  feeling,  and  how 
could  he  make  known  that  of  love?  At  last  he  said, 
after  a  pause,  "  Though  of  manners  unwinning  and 
reserved,  and  seemingly  cold  and  hard,  I  have  at 
times  been  foolish  enough  to  think  that  there  was  one 
being  who  could  read  something  of  my  soul,  and  love 
me  for  what  she  found  there.  Tell  me,  Esther,  have 
I  been  mistaken?  have  I  presumed  too  much?  " 


284  PAUL   FELTON. 

c<  And  do  you  ask  me  so  doubtingly,  to  reprove  me 
for  speaking  as  I  did,  in  the  suddenness  of  my  feel 
ings?  You  cannot  think  that  it  was  designed  in  me? 
I  did  not  consider,  though  I  should  have  done  so,  that 
it  was  a  freedom  ill  suiting  me;  but  it  came  from  an 
earnest  heart,  Paul."  • 

"  My  words  were  not  those  of  reproof.  O,  Esther, 
they  were  uttered  in  the  lowliness  of  a  soul,  which, 
though  too  often  restless  and  proud,  is  at  times  hum 
ble  as  a  worm.  It  is  a  trial  of  my  faith  in  you  to  be 
lieve  that  you  could  ever  love  me*  The  world  could 
hardly  have  persuaded  me  once,  that  a  creature  like 
you,  made  almost  to  be  worshipped  of  men,  could 
ever  look  in  fondness  on  one  like  me." —  He  paused 
for  a  moment;  then  his  manner  changed  suddenly. 
et  But,  so  much  as  I  doubt  my  powers  to  touch 
another's  heart,  so  much  the  more,  so  much  the  more 
must  I  have  assurance  of  her  love." 

"  Why  so  wild,  Paul?  What  pledge  can  I  give 
you,  that  I  would  not  give?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  but  the  pledge  must  not  only  be  a  sure 
one,  it  must  be  of  a  love  which  shall  make  me  all  in 
all.  Can  you,"  he  cried,  seizing  her  hand  and  wring 
ing  it  hard,  "  can  you  have  me  in  all  your  thoughts  — 
make  your  whole  soul  mine?  " — She  shook,  and  turn 
ed  pale.  She  struggled  to  pass  it  off  lightly;  but  a 
tear  was  in  her  eye,  as  she  said,  with  a  forced  smile  — 
"Why,  Paul,  you  are  beside  yourself!  Any  body 
might  think  I  was  making  myself  over  to  the  Evil  One, 
and  not  to  the  man  that  loves  me." 

"Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  Esther,"  he  murmured, 
putting  his  arm  round  her,  and  resting  his  hot  brow  on 
her  shoulder,  —  "I  —  I  feel  myself  sometimes  too 
poor  a  thing  for  mortal  regard;  and  then,  and  then  I 


PAUL   FELTON.  285 

could  crawl  into  the  earth.  O,  take  me  to  you,  and 
cherish  me,  and  tell  me  that  I  am  not  wholly  worth 
less —  that  you  will  love  me." 

"  Paul,  Paul,  this  is  madness.  You  have  brooded 
all  alone  over  your  melancholy  thoughts,  till  they 
have  bewildered  you.  If  you  care  for  me,  shall  I 
not  make  you  happy?  Look  up,  and  let  a  cheerful 
spirit  enter  you."  —  He  lifted  his  head  slowly  from 
her  shoulder,  and  stood  gazing  on  her  beautiful, 
tremulous  countenance.  — "  O,  you  are  an  angel 
come  in  mercy  to  me.  My  spirit  will  never  suffer  so 
more." 

"  This  is  too  eager,  Paul,"  said  she  kindly.  "  Let 
your  soul  have  rest;  and  try  to  be  of  a  calmer  mind." 
—  And  he  was  quiet.  The  tossing  of  the  soul  settled 
away,  and  he  stood  with  a  spirit  gentle  as  the  moon 
light  which  poured  over  them,  as  it  came  up  in  the 
east; — for  what  spirit  will  not  a  woman's  kindness 
calm? 

At  last  Esther's  father  came  to  take  her  home. 
Paul  was  urged  by  him  to  join  them;  but  a  certain 
over  delicacy,  some  might  call  it,  prevented  his  going 
for  the  first  time  to  the  house  in  company  with  the 
woman  to  whom  he  had  been  but  a  little  while  en 
gaged;  and  so,  with  an  embarrassed  and  half  uttered 
apology,  he  said  he  should  soon  follow  them. 

He  had  time  for  only  a  word  or  two  at  her  leaving 
him;  and  yet  he  looked  and  spoke  as  if  it  would  take 
ages  to  pour  out  what  was  in  his  soul.  All  the  good 
affections  in  our  nature  seemed  at  work  there  —  it 
was  love,  and  pitty,  and  parental  care,  and  the  heart- 
sickness  of  parting.  As  he  put  his  arm  gently  round 
her,  and  looked  in  her  face,  there  was  in  his  manner 
more  of  the  father,  who  is  about  parting  with  an  only 


236  PAUL    FELTOX. 

daughter  for  the  first  time,  than-  of  the  lover.  His 
voice  was  low,  and  thrilling,  and  admonitory.  "  You 
are  going  from  me,  Esther,  for  the  first  time  since  we 
have  met.  A  single  and  near  object  moves  our  affec 
tions  strangely.  In  a  little  while  you  will  be  among 
those  with  whom  you  grew  up;  and  old  sympathies  of 
thought  and  feeling  may  return  to  you.  Look  care 
fully  into  your  heart,  Esther,  and  think  it  your  best 
faith  to  rne,  to  abide  by  what  that  tells  you." 

"And  can  you  regard  and  love  me,  Paul,  and  yet 
judge  me  of  so  light  and  changeable  a  disposition?  " 

"  No,  Esther;  but  the  very  intensenessoflove  calls 
up  misgivings;  and  better  I  were  left  out  on  the  bleak 
heath  yonder,  than  be  gathered  to  your  bosom,  to  be 
thrown  away  again." 

They  parted;  and  though  Esther  loved  him  with  a 
devoted  spirit,  she  breathed  more  freely  when  out  of 
his  presence.  He  was  dearer  to  her  for  his  melan 
choly  ;  and  his  kind  and  fond  manner,  when  his  ab 
straction  of  mind  was  gone,  touched  her  heart.  Yet 
there  was  something  fearful  and  ominous  to  her  in  his 
gloom;  and  though  she  knew  it  had  been  caused  by 
long  solitude,  and  a  mistaken  estimate  of  the  relation 
in  which  he  might  stand  to  others,  still  it  was  myste 
riously  foreboding  to  her,  and  there  was  an  indistinct 
impression  on  the  mind  that  some  dreadful  event,  con 
nected  with  it,  awaited  her. 

As  they  drove  from  the  door,  he  followed  with  his 
eyes  the  daintily  moving  steeds,  and  gay  chariot,  till 
a  turn  m  the  road  shut  them  out  from  his  sight.  — 
"  These  things  belong  to  what  we  call  the  elegancies 
of  life,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  There  is  much  going 
under  that  term  which  serves  to  break  up  the  thought- 
fulness  of  the  mind,  and  what  is  native  and  sincere  in 


PAUL  FELTON.  287 

the  heart."  —  He  turned  away,  not  only  melancholy, 
but  dissatisfied  and  doubting.  And  now  that  he  was 
alone  again,  and  without  the  kind  persuasions  of  Es 
ther,  his  old  depression  and  gloom  were  returning, 
and  with  them  all  the  torture  that  doubting  minds  un 
dergo  in  love.  Sometimes  he  saw  her  before  him 
with  the  distinctness  almost  of  real  presence;  her 
voice  and  countenance  beautifully  touched  with  her 
fondness  for  him;  and  then  again  he  remembered  her 
cheerful,  social  spirit,  and  he  thought  himself  driven 
from  her  mind  by  those  who  were  strangers  to  him. 
A  thousand  times  a  day  he  would  ask  himself,  "  Is 
she  thinking  of  me  now,  or  is  she  busy  amid  the  mil 
lions  of  things  which  waste  our  time  and  draw  to  them 
our  wishes  and  hopes,  yet  have  nothing  abiding  in 
them  like  the  nature  of  our  souls?" 

These  conjectures  and  sad  reflections  were  now  to 
give  way  to  feelings  immediate,  active  and  intense; 
for  Paul  set  off  from  home,  and  soon  reached  Mr. 
War  ing's. 

Unless  a  man  has  met,  after  a  long  or  distant  sep 
aration,  the  woman  who  loves  him  with  all  her  heart, 
he  never  saw  the  soul  shine  out  in  the  countenance, 
in  all  its  glow  and  beauty.  So  thought  Paul  when 
they  met.  And  as  Esther  looked  on  him,  his  face, 
too,  was  changed  like  the  edge  of  a  cloud  by  the 
shining  of  the  gun  upon  it;  and  she  felt  that  no  joy  is 
like  her  joy  who  reads  such  silent  tokens  of  love  re 
turned,  heart  answering  to  heart,  and  thanks  for  the 
deep  gladness  she  has  given. 

The  house  of  Esther's  father,  whither  Paul  had 
come,  was  situated  but  a  few  miles  from  the  city,  in  a 
pleasant  village,  made  up  chiefly  of  people  of  wealth 
and  fashion.  Though  Mr.  Waring 's  fortune  was  not  so 


288  PAUL   FELTON. 

large  as  many  of  his  neighbours',  as  he  had  no  child 
but  Esther  he  was  able  to  gratify  his  fondness  for 
company  and  gay  life,  and  had  made  these  agreeable 
to  her  from  early  habit.  She  loved  society  the  better, 
also,  because  she  made  it  pleasant,  and  not  for  the 
reason  that  those  do  who  are  as  dull  company  to  others 
as  to  themselves. 

The  consequence  of  this  was,  that  Paul  and  she 
had  fewer  hours  together,  than  when  at  his  father's. 
He  was  shy  of  being  near  her  in  company ;  and  to 
talk  with  the  woman  to  whom  he  was  known  to  be  en 
gaged,  before  strangers,  would  have  been  martyrdom 
to  him.  He  found  that  her  countenance  brightened 
and  spirits  rose  high  in  society.  Her  gay  laugh  and 
cheerful  voice  were  in  some  states  of  his  feelings,  like 
the  hissing  of  an  adder  in  his  ear.  He  was  pained 
and  made  uneasy,  because  he  saw  her  taken  up  with 
that  in  which  he  felt  himself  unfitted  to  hold  a  part. 
She  was  giving  delight  and  receiving  it  in  return,  and 
he  could  not  share  in  it.  He  would  stand  aside  and 
watch  her,  till  he  fancied  that  her  look  and  tone  of 
voice  were  the  same  with  which  she  looked  and  talked 
with  him. 

His  mind  was  in  a  peculiar  degree  single.  What 
ever  passion  or  thought  was  in  him,  it  filled  him  en 
tirely;  and  now  that  it  was  love,  all  in  the  world  that 
held  not  connexion  with  that  was  as  nothing  to  him; 
he  neither  heard,  nor  saw,  nor  felt  any  thing  that 
concerned  not  his  love  for  Esther.  The  alacrity 
with  which  she  entered  into  whatever  was  going  on, 
was  to  him  a  want  of  steadiness  of  mind  and  depth  of 
feeling.  He  understood  nothing  of  those  to  whom 
the  passion  of  love  gives  a  gay  spirit  —  a  feeling  of 
kindness  and  fellowship  toward  all  the  world  —  from 


PAUL    FELTON.      if*  289 

whom,  as  it  grows  fuller  and  more N^tehae,  it  sends 
forth  something  of  its  bright  influence  over  all  around 
it  :  —  In  him  it  was  a  self-absorbing  and  lonely  fire, 
flaring  only  through  the  recesses  of  his  own  soul,  and 
shining  alone  upon  his  own  solitary  thoughts. 

"  And  has  God  given  them  another  constitution  of 
mind  also?"  said  he  to  himself  one  night,  as  he  left 
the  house,  too  restless  to  stay  any  longer.  "Have 
they  no  fastnesses  nor  places  of  rest  to  come  home  to  ? 
Day  and  night  are  they  on  the  wing,  and  never  tire. 
The  bird  that  passed  over  me  just  now,  and  called  to 
me  out  of  the  darkness,  though  he  make  himself  com 
panion  of  the  stars  the  night  long,  will  go  to  his  nest 
by  morning.  —  I  would  not  be  a  thing  to  lay  my  heart 
open  to  the  common  eye.  Its  beatings  warm  me  the 
more,  to  think  that  I  can  be  in  the  midst  of  men,  and 
they  not  count  its  pulses.  Rather  than  lie  out  for 
ever  sunning  in  the  day,  I  would  be  covered  up  in  my 
grave."  —  Paul  could  not  accuse  Esther  to  himself, 
without  a  feeling  of  compunction.  This  did  not  drive 
away  his  doubts,  but  made  him  turn  some  of  the  im 
patience  he  felt,  upon  her.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  it, 
the  truth  of  her  character  would  break  out  upon  him 
in  its  fair  simplicity,  and  his  adoring  spirit  would 
look  up  to  her  as  something  set  apart  and  sacred. 

Her  spirits  were  in  full  flow  when  Paul  quitted 
the  room;  for  it  gave  animation  and  cheerfulness  to 
her  in  all  she  did,  when  she  thought  him  near  her. 
The  conversation  began  to  flag;  she  turned  to  look 
for  him,  but  he  was  gone.  She  remembered  that  a 
feeling  like  depression  had  been  gradually  gaining  on 
her;  and  a  superstitious  thought  crossed  her,  that  she 
had  been  mysteriously  conscious  of  missing  something, 
she  knew  not  what,  though  she  had  not  before  per- 
19 


290  PAUL   FELTON. 

ceived  that  he  had  left  the  room.  She  grew  silent ; 
the  company  gradually  withdrew;  the  family  retired 
to  rest,  and  she  was  left  alone. 

It  was  midnight,  and  Paul  had  not  returned.  There 
was  no  "sound  in  the  house.  She  raised  the  window 
and  looked  out.  It  was  a  black,  misty  night,  and 
there  was  that  intense  stillness  abroad,  which,  at  such 
a  time,  is  felt  by  us  as  a  supernatural  presence,  and 
makes  us  think  of  death.  She  scarcely  breathed  as 
she  listened  for  his  footstep,  and  the  beatings  of  her 
heart  struck  audibly  upon  her  ear.  At  last  she  heard 
him  as  he  came  round  the  house,  and  the  blood 
bounded  through  her  frame.  —  "Paul!"  she  cried, 
and  her  silver  voice  rang  in  the  still  air.  Paul  en 
tered, —  "Where  have  you  been,  you  runaway," 
said  she,  springing  lightly  toward  him,  —  "to  give 
me  the  heartach  for  two  long  hours,  —  and  all  in  the 
chilly  night  fog,  too.  See,"  said  she,  running  her 
fingers  playfully  through  his  straight,  black  hair,  on 
which  the  dampness  stood  in  drops —  "  these  pearls 
shall  all  be  mine,  and  make  me  a  happy  girl  again." 

"  They  will  not  be  the  first  that  have  eased  a  wo 
man's  heart,  Esther.  Come,  come,  these  are  no 
brown  curls  to  ring  the  white  fingers  of  a  fair  hand." 

"I  thought  to  cheer  you;  I  am  sorry  it  offends 
you." 

"Did  I  speak  harshly,  Esther?  If  I  did,  it  was  far 
from  what  I  feel." 

"  Not  harshly,  but  mournfully,  and  as  if  I  had  given 
you  cause;  and  to  think  so  is  harder  to  bear,  than 
what  comes  from  an  over  hasty  temper." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  for  that  is  one  of 
the  many  tokens  whereby  we  find  out  love." 

"  And  are  you  in  search  of  mine  still?  I  had  thought 
it  had  been  yours  long  ago." 


PAUL    FELTON.  291 

"And  I  think  so  too,  Esther;  but  then  it  can  rest 
only  on  our  belief;  and  upon  that  there  will  always  be 
hanging  some  ugly  shred  of  doubt." 

"Oil  had  believed  it  was  a  faith,  not  to  speak  pro 
fanely —  a  faith  that  surpasseth  knowledge,  that  it 
was  in  us  as  our  consciousness,  our  very  life.  Is  it 
folly  in  me  to  think  so?  " 

"No,  Esther,  it  is  your  virtue.  Bad  as  I  am,  I 
have  moments  of  such  blessedness.  And  this,  this  is 
one  of  them.  It  is  on  me  now!  "  he  cried  in  a  broken 
laugh.  She  started  from  him  as  from  a  deranged 
man.  —  "Be  not  alarmed,"  said  he,  seizing  her  arm, 
and  looking  on  her  eagerly,  "  I  am  not  mad,  not  quite 
mad,  though  joy  shoots  through  me  sometimes  like 
fire." 

"  I  wish  it  might  burn  in  you  gently  and  constantly, 
Paul,  for  then  I  should  see  you  a  happy  man;  and  I 
would  die,  to-night,  and  e'en  forego  all  my  love  for 
you — if  love  must  die  with  us  —  could  I  but  leave 
you  happy."  She  covered  her  face,  and  sobbed  as  if 
all  comfort  had  forsaken  her. 

"  O,  Esther,  I  am  not  worthy  this;  I  'm  so  poor  a 
thing  I  ought  not  to  make  you  unhappy  even.  —  That 
was  an  evil  time  in  which  you  saw  me  first.  When 
I  was  alone,  I  went  about  the  earth  as  a  doomed  thing; 
and  now  that  I  am  connected  with  my  kind,  the  curse 
that  was  on  me  singly,  seems  to  be  stretching  out  over 
all  in  communion  with  me.  When  I  see  you  happy, 
my  heart  aches  for  you,  to  think  how  heedless  you  are 
of  the  hour  that  is  awaiting  you." 

"  And  what  hour  have  I  to  fear,  Paul,  but  the  hour 
of  death,  which  is  to  part  us?" 

"I  cannot  tell;  only  I  have  lived  impressed  from 
the  time  I  was  a  boy,  that  it  was  writ  I  should  be 


292  PAUL    PELTON. 

miserable.  And  when  I  see  you  happy,  you  look  to 
me  like  a  star  trailing  your  glory  across  my  gloom, 
only  to  fall  and  go  out  in  it.  Better,  I  fear,  that  I 
should  have  lived  on  in  darkness,  than  that  your  light 
should  ever  have  shone  on  me.  —  O,  I  talk!  No  more 
of  this  now,  the  morning  will  overtake  us.  You  look 
pale  and  heart-sunken.  Let  me  not  make  your  hour 
of  rest  miserable,  Esther.  Think  this,  as  I  hope  it 
is,  but  the  boding  of  midnight.  To-morrow  I  '11  be 
as  cheerful  as  the  lightest  of  them.  Sweet  sleep  com 
fort  you.  And  now,  my  love,  good  night."  —  Esther 
looked  at  him,  melancholy,  yet  something  cheered, 
but  she  could  not  speak  as  they  parted. 

For  several  days,  Paul's  affectionate  manner  was 
not  broken  by  any  sudden  starts  or  gloomy  reserve ; 
and  if  after  a  time  these  returned  upon  him,  it  was 
seldomer;  and  his  disposition  seemed  softened  and 
quieted.  The  day  was  coming  that  Esther  wras  to  be 
his  wife;  and  as  it  drew  near,  he  felt  more  surely 
how  deeply  rooted  she  was  in  his  heart. 

There  are  at  times,  a  tenderness  and  a  delicacy  about 
a  serious  man,  the  beauty  of  which  affects  us  even 
more  than  when  we  see  them  in  a  woman.  This  is 
partly  from  contrast.  They  are  in  agreement  with  a 
woman's  person  and  general  character,  and  are 
habitual  to  her.  It  may  be  that  when  the  man  is  un 
der  their  influences,  he  has  a  more  exquisite  sense  of 
them  —  may  we  say,  a  finer  touch  for  them  ? 

Though  Paul  showed  the  greatest  fondness  for 
Esther,  except  at  moments  when  haunted  by  some 
fearful  passion  or  thought,  there  was  now  so  kind  a 
regard,  so  delicate  a  propriety  of  the  affections  in  his 
manner  toward  her,  that  she  almost  thought  some 
new  and  higher  sense  of  his  love  had  been  given  her:  — 


PAUL   FELTON.  293 

it  moved  her  to  tears.  Paul  was  happy  that  it  did; 
it  made  her  the  nearer  to  him.  He  knew  that  the 
tender  affections  have  more  or  less  of  melancholy  in 
them,  and  that  his  own  were  tinged  by  it. 

"  Let  me  fasten  on  these  bracelets,"  said  he,  taking 
out  a  pair  he  had  just  purchased,  "  for  there  is  a  charm 
in  their  circles  to  bind  you  to  me." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Paul;  no  manacles,  though  to  bind 
me  to  you  even,"  she  said,  unclasping  one  of  them 
and  whirling  it  round  her  finger.  —  u  Don  't  look  so 
serious  about  it.  —  There,  clasp  it  again,  and  you 
shall  be  the  first  to  take  it  off,  though  thou  wouldst 
have  me  spell-bound,  thou  wizard  man.  I  wish  it  had 
been  something  else,  though." 

"  And  what  would  you  have  had  it,  Esther?  " 

"  This,"  said  she,  passing  her  hand  playfully  over 
his  face. 

<c  What,  a  face  like  mine,  and  f  in  little,3  and  set 
round  with  gold  and  diamonds!  And  where  would 
you  have  worn  it?  —  Why,  it  would  have  made  your 
heart  beat  with  fear  to  have  such  a  looking  thing  so 
near  it.  And  to  have  made  love  to  it,  Esther,"  he 
said,  half  smiling,  "that 's  past  all  faith!  " 

"  Then  there  is  no  truth  in  my  love,  Paul." 

"  Yes,  but  there  is;  it  is  all  truth.  And  yet,"  he 
added,  as  if  pondering  upon  it,  "it  is  very  strange." 

"  What  is  strange?35 

"  That  Esther  should  ever  look  on  me,  and  after, 
love  me.  And  yet  you  will  vow  it  to-morrow,  will 
you  not? " 

"  If  you  question  it  so,  it  may  be  better  for  us  both 
that  I  should  not.  For  when  I  have  done  it,  should 
Paul  doubt,  he  had  better  be  in  his  grave  than  live.'7 

((  Nor  should  I  deserve  to  see  the  light,  nor  feel 


294  PAUL   FELTON. 

this  blessed  sun  upon  me.  I  was  moody,  Esther. 
Do  not  lay  to  heart  what  I  say  at  such  times.  My 
joy  was  too  much  for  me,  and  made  me  play  with 
misery.  Did  'st  never  in  grief  have  a  wild  and  horrid 
mirth  fork  like  lightning  by  thee?  I  have,  that 
my  eyes  have  blenched  at  it.  I  shall  be  used  to 
this  joy  soon;  and  then  my  spirit  will  be  as  quiet  be 
fore  you  as  that  cloud  yonder,  which  rests  above  us 
in  the  light.  O,  you  shall  be  my  sun  and  all  else 
that  is  good  and  cheering  to  me;  and  when  I  hold 
you  to  me  thus,  to-morrow,  I  '11  not  call  you  Esther, 
but  my  wife." 

The  next  day  they  were  married,  and  Paul  took 
Esther  to  their  new  home,  not  quite  a  mile  from  the 
village.  The  house  was  plain,  but  well  proportioned; 
set  down  in  the  middle  of  a  level  grass-plat,  which 
was  broken  only  by  the  gravel-way  winding  up  to  the 
door,  and  a  clump  of  young  trees  a  little  on  one  side. 
The  whole  was  open  to  the  sun;  and  about  it  was  an 
air  of  perfect  simplicity  and  quiet.  All  along  the 
even  road  to  the  village  lay  a  beautiful  prospect;  and 
there  was  a  row  of  elms  and  sycamores,  stretching 
the  entire  length  of  the  route;  so  that,  though  they 
had  but  one  near  neighbour,  Mr.  Ridgley,  they  had 
quite  as  much  company  as  if  in  the  midst  of  the  village. 

Their  house  terminated  these  pleasant  views;  for 
a  little  back  of  it  ran  a  ridge  of  steep  rocks;  and  be 
yond  that  the  country  was  desolate,  stretching  out  into 
wide  sand  tracts,  broken  by  patches  of  scant,  yellow 
ish  grass;  and  half  round  the  whole,  swept  a  forest  of 
low,  ragged  pines.  The  place  was  difficult  of  access, 
and  appeared  like  a  land  accursed;  neither  the  foot 
print  of  man  nor  beast  was  to  be  seen  there.  It  was 
one  of  those  good-for-nothing  tracts  of  country,  which 


PAUL   FELTON.  295 

are  sure  to  lead  their  proprietors  into  law-suits.  A 
farmer  in  the  neighbourhood  had  put  a  couple  of  men 
on  it  to  cut  down  the  wood;  and  this  business  he 
carried  on  for  several  years,  till  falling  into  a  dispute 
with  a  neighbouring  farmer,  notice  of  the  trespass 
reached  the  owner,  who  would  not  have  remembered 
that  the  estate  was  his,  had  it  not  been  for  his  tax- 
bills.  A  suit  was  instituted,  the  farmer  at  last  driven 
off  from  what  was  not  worth  having,  and  the  true  pro 
prietor  ruined.  A  story  was  current  thereabouts,  that 
the  land  was  good  enough  before  the  owner  gained 
his  cause;  but  that  he  was  a  hard  man,  that  the 
Devil  had  a  hand  in  the  suit,  helped  him  gain  it,  and 
then  danced  over  the  land  where  now  lay  the  sand, 
and  singed  the  grass,  as  he  went  off  in  fire  and  smoke. 
The  men  said  they  did  not  know  why  they  should  go 
where  there  was  nothing  to  be  got;  and  a  foolhardy 
boy  who  had  once  been  a  birds-nesting  there,  was 
ever  afterwards  looked  on  with  suspicion,  as,  in  some 
way  or  other,  belonging  to  the  Evil  One. 

When  Paul  now  looked  back,  and  remembered 
that  till  a  little  while  before  the  world  had  been  bare 
of  joy  to  him;  that  the  soul,  living  without  sympathy, 
had  been  at  prey  upon  itself;  and  that  a  solitude, 
more  dreadful  than  if  he  had  stood  the  only  living 
thing  upon  the  earth,  had  surrounded  him  —  the  soli 
tude  and  void  which  estrangement  from  others  makes 
about  us, — it  was  as  if  he  had  passed  into  another 
state  of  being;  and  a  new  nature  and  new  delights 
filled  him  with  sensations  of  which  before  he  had  no 
thought.  He  looked  upon  Esther,  and  his  mind  was 
one  rapture.  Neglected  and  passed  by,  as  he  had 
been,  she  had  stopped,  and  spoken  comfort  to  him,  and 
taken  him  by  the  hand,  and  he  followed  her  like  a 


296  PAUL   FELTON. 

child.  "  Thou  hast  been  my  good  angel  to  me, 
Esther,  and  brought  me  out  of  darkness  into  the 
comfortable  light.  The  spring  of  my  feelings  was 
sealed  up,  but  you  have  opened  it,  and  it  runs  on  now, 
taking  the  hues  and  forms  of  all  the  beautiful  and 
blessed  things  with  which  God  has  filled  this  earth 
for  us.  My  heart  is  fuller  of  joy  than  I  well  know 
how  to  bear  — it  aches  to  speak  it  to  you;  and  yet 
its  throbbings  can  tell  you  better  than  words  can." 

This  was  the  over  contentment  of  a  mind  melan 
choly  by  nature,  and  not  knowing  how  to  measure  its 
joys  when  they  came.  The  happiness  of  such  minds 
is  always  in  excess;  then  it  seems  strange  to  them; 
they  question  its  truth;  it  does  not  belong  to  them; 
they  fear  it  cannot  last;  they  look  back  upon  their 
melancholy  as  their  true  condition,  as  one  which  they 
are  bound  to  by  some  fatality;  and  in  their  hopeless 
ness  they  rush  into  it  further  than  before. 

Paul's  state  was  so  opposite  to  what  he  had  been 
wonted  to,  that  it  seemed  to  produce  some  indistinct 
ness  of  the  thoughts  and  senses,  and  he  could  hardly 
have  a  clear  persuasion  of  the  reality  of  his  happiness. 
It  partook  of  the  visionary;  and  he  began  to  fear  that 
his  hopes  and  imagination  had  cheated  him  into  it. 
In  his  saner  moments,  when  he  could  not  question  its 
truth,  he  doubted  its  stability;  and  a  vague  notion  that 
this  was  to  pass  away,  and  something,  he  knew  not 
what,  to  take  its  place,  unsettled  the  quiet  of  his  mind, 
and  disturbed  its  full  content.  A  feeling,  like  those 
ill  forebodings  which  sometimes  come  over  us  and 
then  go  off  again,  was  more  and  more  gaining  pos 
session  of  him,  bringing  back  his  old  melancholy, 
troubling  his  reason,  and  distorting  what  he  saw. 

There  is  a  strange  infatuation  in  gloomy  minds, 


PAUL   FELTON.  297 

which  makes  whatever  they  are  concerned  in  minis 
ter  to  their  melancholy;  and  they  seek  out  causes  of 
depression  with  an  industry  more  eager  and  unrelaxed 
than  that  with  which  cheerful  souls  hunt  after  pleasure: 
It  is  the  craving  of  a  diseased  appetite,  which  is  never 
sated. 

Paul  felt  his  melancholy  returning  at  intervals.  At 
first,  he  shrunk  from  it  with  the  dread  that  the  lunatic 
flies  his  fits  of  coming  madness;  but  at  last,  as  dark 
thoughts  began  to  gather  round  him,  he  no  longer 
tried  to  scatter  them;  the  fate  that  he  imagined  him 
self  born  to  was  oftener  in  his  mind,  and  his  former 
distrust  of  himself;  and  with  these  came  his  doubts 
of  others. — "It  cannot  be,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that 
I  was  made  to  be  loved  of  one  so  beautiful  and  of  so 
light  a  heart.  The  gloom  that  shadowed  me  about 
was  a  mystery  to  her,  and  she  was  curious  to  know  it. 
She  saw  that  I  was  depressed  and  miserable,  and 
that  moved  her  heart  to  pity  me;  she  found  that  her 
kindness  touched  me  and  made  me  happy,  and  this 
stirred  an  innocent  pride  within  her,  and  she  mistook 
it  all  for  love.  —  And,  fool !  fool !  so  did  I.  Ay,  and 
there  was  no  one  near  to  place  this  uncomely  form  by; 
and  no  gay,  accomplished  and  ready  mind,  to  play 
round  the  sluggish,  unchanging  movements  of  mine. 
Poor  girl,  she  knew  not  me,  nor  herself  then;  but  the 
knowledge  will  one  day  be  revealed  to  her,  and  with 
a  curse  as  heavy  as  fell  on  man  in  paradise.'' 

Though  Paul  passed  many  such  hours  when  alone, 
and  was  restless  and  impatient  in  company,  yet  the 
thought  that  Esther  was  his  wife  was  still  a  healing 
to  his  heart.  He  loved  her  with  all  that  intenseness 
his  nature  was  made  to  feel;  and  it  was  with  a  joyous 
adoration  that  he  looked  on  her  in  his  undisturbed 


298  PAUL    FELTON. 

moments:  He  could  yet  feel  the  reality  of  her  fond 
ness  for  him;  and  he  thought  of  it  as  more  than  an 
earthly  blessing. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Frank  Ridgley  returned 
home,  after  an  absence  of  two  years.  He  had  been 
an  early  and  ardent  lover  of  Esther.  She  had  a  great 
regard  and  liking  for  Frank,  but  not  a  particle  of  love 
for  him.  His  case  was  a  more  hopeless  one  than  if 
he  had  been  her  aversion;  for  opposite  passions  run 
so  into  each  other,  particularly  in  women,  that  it  is 
oftentimes  hard  to  tell  which  is  which.  Perhaps 
Frank  felt  the  truth  of  this  (though  he  was  not  much 
in  the  way  of  philosophizing)  when  Esther  refused 
him,  telling  him,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  had  a 
great  esteem  for  him.  For  the  matter  of  that,  thought 
he,  though  he  dared  not  say  it,  you  might  profess 
as  much  to  my  grandmother.  He  was  angry,  and 
mortified,  and  in  despair;  and  confounded,  and  not 
knowing  what  feeling  he  was  suffering  under,  swore 
most  solemnly  that  he  would  never  survive  his  disap 
pointment.  —  "  That 's  an  unwise  resolution  in  you, 
Frank,"  said  Esther.  "  Only  allow  yourself  time  to 
think  about  it  till  you  are  a  little  older,  and  you  will 
live  to  see  the  folly  of  it.  —  Forgive  me,  Frank;  I  do 
not  mean  to  make  sport  of  your  feelings;  but,  for  the 
life  of  me,  I  cannot  help  thinking  how  bright  and 
well  you  will  look  a  twelvemonth  hence." 

The  truth  is,  Frank  was  one  of  those  whose  feel 
ings  spend  themselves  on  the  outer  man,  and  whose 
passions,  violently  as  they  seem  moved,  are  but  health 
ful  excitement,  compared  with  what  those  feel  who 
look  clayey  and  hard  when  they  are  agitated  most. 
Esther  knew  very  well  that  he  was  sincerely  and 
warmly  attached  to  her  at  the  time,  and  that,  would 


PAUL  FELTON.  299 

she  consent  to  have  him,  he  would  make  a  fond  hus 
band,  and  wear  black  for  her  a  full  year  after  she  was 
gone;  but  that  his  mind  was  not  one  of  those  abiding 
places  in  which  we  find  decayed,  gray  trees,  and 
young  shoots,  running  vines,  and  mosses,  and  all  those 
close  and  binding  growths  which  look  so  lasting, 
faithful  and  affectionate.  She  pitied  him  as  we  do 
one  who  has  a  twinge  of  the  toothach  —  which  no 
body  dies  of.  However  bent  we  may  be  upon  dying 
of  crossed  love,  it  is  no  easy  matter;  next  to  starving 
one's  self  to  death,  there  is  nothing  which  requires 
more  resolution  and  perseverance.  Accordingly, 
Frank  returned  in  due  time,  glad  to  see  his  friends, 
with  his  head  full  of  novelties,  with  much  useful  in 
formation,  and  a  ready,  lively  way  of  showing  it. 

It  was  a  damp,  uncomfortable  evening;  and  Paul  and 
Esther  were  round  the  fire ;  Paul  alittle  on  one  side,  and 
partly  in  the  shade,  now  and  then  making  some  short, 
serious  remark,  after  his  usual  manner,  with  his  eyes 
resting  on  Esther's  countenance,  as  she  sat  looking 
into  the  fire,  pondering  on  what  he  said,  and  the  many 
things  it  led  the  mind  to.  Her  face  was  all  thought, 
and  her  features  had  a  beautiful  distinctness,  as  they 
appeared  in  strong  outline  against  the  warm  fire-light 
that  shone  on  her.  At  no  time  had  love  seemed  to 
Paul  so  quiet  and  domestic.  He  thought  that  he  had 
never  before  been  conscious  how  lovely  and  dear  to 
us  humanity  may  be. 

There  was  a  smart  rap  at  the  door,  and  in  came,  in 
full  spirits,  Frank  Ridgley.  Esther,  who  was  sur 
prised  and  sincerely  glad  to  see  him,  showed  it  in  her 
benevolent  countenance.  His  manner  was  a  little 
embarrassed;  for  he  had  not  forgotten  that  he  had 
once  been  in  love,  though  now  cured  of  it;  and  re- 


300  PAUL   FELTON. 

membering  Esther's  prophecy,  he  coloured, and  looked 
not  a  little  ashamed  to  think  that  she  should  see  him 
alive  and  well  again.  Paul  felt  something  like  un 
easiness  at  the  expression  of  Esther's  face,  and  an 
impatient  doubt  passed  through  his  mind  as  he  ob 
served  Frank's  embarrassed  manner.  It  was  that  old 
distrust  of  himself  and  of  his  power  to  interest  another 
deeply,  making  him  question  the  possibility  of  a  sin 
cere  and  enduring  passion  for  him,  which  haunted 
him,  and  not  a  proneness  to  think  lightly  of  another's 
virtue.  Frank  was  a  man  much  below  Paul  in  force 
of  character,  and  feeling,  and  intellectual  power;  yet 
he  was  his  very  opposite  in  mind  and  person;  and 
this  left  Paul  room  to  harass  himself  with  surmises, 
and  torture  himself  with  the  agony  with  which  hum 
bling  thoughts  afflict  proud  men. 

"Mr.  Felton,"  said  Esther,  a  little  agitated  at  in 
troducing  her  husband  to  an  old  friend,  "  this  is  an 
old  acquaintance  of  mine,  Mr.  Ridgley."  His  eye 
fastened  on  Esther,  as  if  he  was  reading  her  very 
soul.  He  saw  her  agitation,  but  mistook  the-  cause. 
He  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  out  of  the  dark  corner 
in  which  he  was  sitting,  and  giving  his  hand  deliber 
ately  to  Frank,  and  looking  downward,  said  gravely, 
"  Sir,  I  am  happy  to  see  you."  —  As  the  light  struck 
upon  his  figure,  and  he  took  Frank's  hand,  Frank 
shrunk  back  a  little,  as  if  not  altogether  safe.  The 
deep,  and  scarcely  audible  voice  in  which  he  spoke, 
his  dark  countenance,  and  low,  muscular  form,  seemed 
possessed  of  some  strange  power.  Frank  involunta 
rily  turned  toward  Esther,  as  if  in  wonder  that  any 
thing  so  gentle,  and  fair,  and  cheerful  as  she,  could 
belong  to  such  a  being.  Esther  trembled  as  she  ob 
served  Paul,  though  she  hardly  knew  why;  and  seeing 
Frank  looking  at  her,  blushed  deeply,  for  she  knew 


PAUL   FELTON.  301 

what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  Paul  glanced  his  eye 
swiftly  over  both  of  them,  and  bowing  low,  drew  back 
into  his  seat. 

The  room  was  immediately  lighted,  and  Frank, 
who  was  of  too  cheerful  a  disposition  to  be  made  long 
uneasy  by  unpleasant  thoughts,  began,  in  full  spirits,  to 
talk  about  old  times  and  what  he  had  seen  since  leaving 
home.  His  gayety  was  not  of  that  sort  which  we  sit 
and  look  at  with  a  good  natured  acquiescence,  and 
are  pleased  to  see  so  well  played  off;  but  it  was  com 
municative,  driving  away  our  troubles,  and  making  us 
feel,  for  the  time,  as  if  we  ourselves  were  of  too  happy 
a  temperament  ever  to  be  melancholy.  He  was  a 
man  of  good  sense,  too,  and  of  right  honest  and  kind 
feelings,  and  therefore  much  better  fitted  for  the  true 
purposes  of  travel  than  those  who  go  equipped  with 
every  thing  that  can  be  thought  of,  except  straight 
heads  and  honest  hearts.  His  gayety  and  humour 
were  mingled  with  just  observations,  and  softened 
down  by  the  propriety  and  delicacy  natural  to  his 
character;  and  these,  with  a  graceful  and  elegant  per 
son  and  handsome  countenance,  and  a  certain  defer 
ence  of  manner,  made  him  a  favourite  wherever  he 
went,  particularly  among  the  women. 

Notwithstanding  the  effect  Paul's  appearance  had 
on  him,  he  knew  Esther  too  well  to  think  that  any 
attention  he  might  pay  her  would  reconcile  her  to  a 
neglect  of  her  husband.  This  might  be  one  of  her 
singularities;  but  it  was  not  to  be  disregarded.  Be 
sides,  however  reserved  and  silent  Paul  might  be,  no 
one  could  sit  near  him,  and  forget  who  was  by  his 
side.  Though  Paul  was  distant  and  cold  at  first,  the 
ease  and  propriety  of  Frank's  remarks  were  not  unob 
served  by  him,  and  he  was  gradually  led  to  take  a 


302  PAUL    FELTOtf. 

part  in  the  conversation.  When  he  did,  Frank  no 
longer  wondered  at  his  power  over  Esther;  though  at 
the  same  time,  (he  knew  not  why,)  he  was  conscious 
of  something  like  uneasiness  and  distrust  on  her 
account.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  the  evening  passed  off 
very  well;  and  Esther's  heart  was  lightened  to  think 
it  had  ended  so  much  better  than  it  began. 

When  Frank  withdrew,  Paul  became  silent. — <c  It 
is  not  yet  quite  two  years  since  she  first  saw  me," 
said  he  to  himself;  "  and  who  can  tell  how  many  times 
since  she  was  a  child,  to  that  hour,  she  has  sighed  as 
she  thought  on  some  other  man?"  —  He  stirred  in 
his  chair.  Esther  looked  at  him;  but  he  was  buried 
in  thought. —  "  And  is  it  mere  chance  that  has  fixed 
her  love  at  last  on  me?  Have  the  same  hopes  and 
same  desires  which  rest  on  me,  been  breathed  forth 
in  silence  for  another,  when  I  was  unknown?  And 
had  she  never  seen  me,  might  she  not  have  looked  as 
fondly  on  some  other  man,  and  hung  on  him  as  she 
will  on  me  now?  "  —  It  was  hateful  to  him  to  think 
on  it.  There  is  no  man  of  sentiment  who  would  not 
gladly  be  rid  of  such  thoughts,  if  he  could;  he  practises 
upon  himself  to  believe  it  was  otherwise;  and  though 
half  conscious  of  the  self-deception,  yet  even  from  that 
little  gathers  some  relief.  But  Paul  was  made  for 
self-torture;  besides,  he  had  lived  a  lonely  man  so 
long,  that  what  he  felt  was  not  to  be  so  shuffled  off. 
He  considered  with  himself,  and  considered  truly,  that 
there  is  not  one  woman  in  a  thousand,  who  has  not,  at 
some  time  or  other,  imagined  herself  in  love  with 
another  man  than  him  she  at  last  marries.  It  made 
him  writhe  with  impatience. 

At  last  Esther  said  aloud,  but  without  raising  her 
eyes  from  a  print  of  Moreland's,  on  which  she  was 
looking,  tc  He  is  certainly  very  amiable." 


PAUL    FELTOJf.  303 

"Do  you  mean  that  swine-feeder?"  asked  Paul 
sarcastically,  as  he  looked  up. 

"  I  was  not  then  thinking  of  him  or  his  pigs,"  she 
replied,  smiling. 

"  You  should  be  more  definite  then,  my  dear. 
You  forget  that  every  one's  thoughts  do  not  take  the 
same  road  with  yours.  Yes,  he  is  one  of  the  hand 
somest  men  I  have  met  with,  and  of  a  very  winning 
address." 

cc  Handsome,  did  I  say?  " 

11  I  know  not  that  you  did;  yet  you  think  him  so, 
surely;  do  you  not?  " 

"Certainly  I  do;  but  I  was  speaking  of  his 
heart." 

"  O,  of  his  heart.  Of  that  you  know  more  than  I 
do." 

"  And  well  I  may,  Paul,  for  I  have  known  Frank 
Ridgley  from  a  boy." 

"  Very  like,"  said  Paul;  then  spoke  of  the  weather, 
and  soon  left  the  room.  He  at  this  time  believed 
Esther  to  be  of  a  mind  as  open  as  the  day,  yet  because 
his  own  person  and  bearing  had  nothing  graceful  or 
attractive  in  it,  he  made  these  properties  of  too  much 
importance,  forgetting  how  much  less  women  regard 
such  things  in  us,  than  we  do  in  them.  He  remem 
bered  Frank's  appearance;  and  the  idea  took  posses 
sion  of  him,  that  there  must  have  been  a  time  when 
he  had  place  in  her  youthful  imagination.  This 
was  a  poisonous  thought  to  take  root  in  a  mind  like 
his. 

The  next  day,  as  he  was  returning  home  from  a 
morning  walk,  he  saw  at  a  distance,  Frank  leaving 
the  house.  —  "  I  thought  as  much  —  a  lady's  man, 
who  plays  his  glove,  and  shows  a  white  hand.  We 


304  PAUL   FELTON. 

value  ourselves,  and  are  valued,  on  the  turn  of  a  finger 
nail;  and  what  is  worse,  our  sober,  retired  thoughts 
are  put  out  o'doors,  and  our  minds  fitted  up  for  shows 
and  gala-days" 

Frank  soon  came  along,  looking  fresh  as  the  morn 
ing,  and  as  he  passed  Paul,  wished  him,  gayly,  a 
pleasant  day.  Paul  bowed  his  head  slowly,  and 
walked  on  homeward. 

"  And  what  have  you  there?  "  asked  Esther,  going 
toward  him  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"  Constancy,  Esther,  constancy." 

"  Give  it  me  then,"  said  she,  catching  it  out  of  his 
hand.  "  Yet  I'll  not  take  it  all.  There,  it  shall  be 
between  us.  Stay,  let  me  have  it  again,  and  I'll  plant 
it  under  this  window,  that  it  may  grow  all  together. 
And  I'll  water  it  daily." 

"  Look  well  to  it,  lest  a  blight  take  it." 

"It  is   not    so   tender   that  it  need  watching  so, 

surely?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  is,  Esther  —  it  is  often  blasted." 

"  I  read  not  so  of  it." 

"Then  your  books  are  a  lie;  do  not  trust  them." 

"  I  will  not,  nor  myself,  neither.  It  is  yours  again; 
and  you  shall  tend  it.  I  am  too  heedless  and  gay  for 
such  continual  care.  Come,  lay  by  that  sombre 
countenance,  and  fit  you  with  a  more  cheerful  look, 
for  we  are  to  have  a  splendid  ball  at  the  village. 
Frank  has  been  here,  and  spoiled  my  morning  with 
talk  of  figures  and  dresses.  And  I  know  not  but  that 
you  would  have  found  me  in  full  practice,  had  I  not 
protested  against  dancing  at  high  noon. —  Now,  take 
me  not  in  earnest,  Paul." 

"  Would  that  I  could  tell  when  I  might,  Esther. 
My  heart  is  ill  at  ease,  and  I  cannot  trifle  now," 


PAUL   FELTON.  305 

"And  is  it  I,  who  have  broken  its  peace?"  asked 
she,  as  she  leaned  fondly  on  him.  "  It  was  my  hope, 
and  all  which  made  me  happy,  that  I  should  be  its 
place  of  rest  and  joy.  I  seem  to  you  too  much  a 
trifler  for  your  graver  nature.  I,  too,  was  graver 
than  now,  before  I  knew  you,  Paul.  It  is  the  over-joy 
that  you  have  filled  my  heart  with,  which  makes  me 
so  prattling  and  wild,  like  a  child:  It  is  that  I  feel 
too  much,  and  not  too  little.  Yet  sometimes  it  makes 
me  thoughtful,  nearly  to  melancholy,  instead  of  gay. 
I  wish  it  always  did,  for  then  I  should  be  like  you, 
and  content  you  better.  And  you  would  never  then 
cast  on  me  that  look  of  sorrow  and  reproof  which  you 
did  just  now,  would  you,  Paul?  "  The  tears  started 
to  her  eyes. 

"Be  like  me,  Esther!  You  little  know  what  you 
are  wishing  for.  Be  like  yourself,"  said  he,  laying 
his  hand  on  her  open  brow,  "  be  good  and  be  happy. 
Misery  is  but  another  name  for  sin,  —  for  imperfect 
virtue.  Could  we  cast  off  our  frailties,  man  might 
walk  through  the  afflictions,  the  losses,  and  wrongs  of 
life  with  the  calm  of  heaven  within  him,  and  its  glory 
round  about  him.  I  have  had  visions  of  it,  and  they 
have  changed  this  vile  thing  you  lean  on,  to  the  bright 
soul  and  shape  of  angels." 

She  gazed  on  him  without  breathing.  His  face 
was  turned  upward,  and  he  seemed  as  if  seeing  into 
the  world  above  him.  His  look  was  fixed  and  calm 
as  the  sky.  He  stood  for  a  time  as  if  rapt  in  holy 
converse.  By  and  by  a  cloud  passed,  his  countenance 
became  dark,  and  his  head  sunk  on  his  bosom. 
Esther  could  look  no  longer.  Paul  seemed  sinking 
beneath  her  weight.  She  raised  herself,  and  he 
turned,  and  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room.  She 
would  have  followed  him,  but  she  could  not  move. 
20 


306  PAUL    FELTON. 

He  took  a  path  which  led  through  the  fields  back 
of  his  house,  and  wound  among  the  steep  rocks  part 
way  up  the  range  of  high  hills,  till  it  reached  a  small 
locust  grove,  where  it  ended.  He  began  climbing  a 
ridge  near  him,  and  reaching  the  top  of  it,  beheld  all 
around  him  a  scene  desolate  and  broken  as  the 
ocean.  It  looked,  for  miles,  as  if  one  immense  gray 
rock  had  been  heaved  up  and  shattered  by  an  earth 
quake.  Here  and  there  might  be  seen  shooting  out 
of  the  clefts,  old  trees,  like  masts  at  sea.  It  was  as 
if  the  sea  in  a  storm  had  become  suddenly  fixed, 
with  all  its  ships  upon  it.  The  sun  shone  glaring 
and  hot  on  it,  but  there  was  neither  life,  nor  motion, 
nor  sound:  the  spirit  of  Desolation  had  gone  over 
it,  and  it  had  become  the  place  of  death.  His  heart 
sunk  within  him,  and  something  like  a  superstitious 
dread  entered  him.  He  tried  to  rouse  himself,  and 
look  about  with  a  composed  mind.  It  was  in  vain  — 
he  felt  as  if  some  dreadful,  unseen  power  stood  near 
him.  He  would  have  spoken,  but  he  dared  not  in  such 
a  place. 

To  shake  this  off,  he  began  clambering  over  one 
ridge  after  another,  till  passing  cautiously  round  a 
beetling  rock,  a  sharp  cry  from  out  it  shot  through 
him.  Every  small  jut  and  precipice  sent  it  back  with 
a  satanic taunt;  and  the  crowd  of  hollows  and  points 
seemed  for  the  instant  alive  with  thousands  of  fiends. 
Paul's  blood  ran  cold;  and  he  scarcely  breathed,  as  he 
waited  for  their  cry  again;  but  all  was  still.  Though 
his  mind  was  of  a  superstitious  cast,  he  had  courage 
and  fortitude;  and  ashamed  of  his  weakness,  he 
reached  forward,  and  stooping  down,  looked  into  the 
cavity.  He  started  as  his  eye  fell  on  the  object 
within  it.  "Who  and  what  are  you?"  cried  he, 


PAUL    FELTON.  307 

cc  Come  out,  and  let  me  see  whether  you  are  man  or 
devil."  And  out  crawled  a  miserable  boy,  looking  as 
if  shrunk  up  with  fear  and  famine.  "  Speak,  and  tell 
me  who  you  are,  and  what  you  do  here,"  said  Paul. 
The  poor  fellow's  jaws  moved  and  quivered,  but  he 
did  not  utter  a  sound.  His  spare  frame  shook,  and 
his  knees  knocked  against  each  other,  as  in  an  ague 
fit.  Paul  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  His  loose, 
shambly  frame  was  nearly  bare  to  the  bones,  his  light, 
sunburnt  hair  hung  long  and  straight  round  his  thin 
jaws,  and  white  eyes,  that  shone  with  a  delirious 
glare,  as  if  his  mind  had  been  terror-struck.  There 
was  a  sickly,  beseeching  smile  about  his  mouth.  His 
skin,  betweenthe  freckles, was  as  white  as  a  leper's,  and 
his  teeth  long  and  yellow.  He  appeared  like  one  who 
had  witnessed  the  destruction  about  him,  and  was 
the  only  living  thing  spared,  to  make  death  seem  more 
horrible.  —  "  Who  put  you  here  to  starve  ?"  said  Paul 
to  him. 

"Nobody,  sir." 

"  Why  did  you  come,  then?  " 

"  O,  I  can  't  help  it;  I  must  come." 

"  Must !  And  why  must  you?  "  The  boy  looked 
round  timidly,  and  crouching  near  Paul,  said,  in  a 
tremulous,  low  voice,  his  eyes  glancing  fearfully 
through  the  chasm.  "  'T  is  He,  'tis  He,  that  makes 
me  !  " —  Paul  turned  suddenly  round  and  saw  before 
him,  for  the  first  time,  the  deserted  tract  of  pine  wood 
and  sand,  which  has  been  described. —  "Who  and 
where  is  he,"  asked  Paul,  impatiently,  expecting  to 
see  some  one. 

'There,  there,  in  the  wood  yonder,"  answered 
the  boy,  crouching  still  lower,  and  pointing  with  his 
finger,  whilst  his  hand  shook  as  if  palsied. 


308  PAUL   FELTON. 

"I  see  nothing,"  said  Paul,  "but  these  pines. 
What  possesses  you  ?  Why  do  you  shudder  so  ?  and 
look  so  pale?  Do  you  take  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
for  devils? " 

"  Don  't  speak  of  them.  They'll  be  on  me,  if  you 
talk  of  them  here,"  whispered  the  boy  eagerly. 
Drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  brow  from  the  agony  of 
terror  he  was  in.  As  Paul  looked  at  the  lad,  he  felt 
something  like  fear  creeping  over  him.  He  turned 
his  eyes  involuntarily  to  the  wood  again.  "  If  we 
must  not  talk  here,"  said  he  at  last,  "come  along 
with  me,  and  tell  me  what  all  this  means."  The 
boy  rose,  and  followed  close  to  Paul. 

"Is  it  the  devil  you  have  seen,  that  you  shake  so?" 

"  You  have  named  him,  I  never  must,"  said  the 
boy.  "  I  have  seen  strange  sights;  and  heard  sounds 
whispered  close  to  my  ears,  so  full  of  spite,  and 
so  dreadful,  I  dared  not  look  round,  lest  I  should  see 
some  awful  face  at  mine.  I  've  thought  I  felt  it  touch 
me  sometimes." 

"  And  what  wicked  thing  have  you  done,  that  they 
should  haunt  you  so?" 

"  O,  Sir,  I  was  a  foolhardy  boy.  Two  years  ago  I 
was  not  afraid  of  any  thing.  Nobody  dared  go  into 
that  wood,  or  even  so  much  as  over  the  rocks,  to  look 
at  it,  after  what  happened  there."  —  "  I  've  heard  a 
foolish  story,"  said  Paul.  — "  So  once,  Sir,  the  thought 
took  me  that  I  would  go  there  a  birds-nesting,  and 
bring  home  the  eggs  and  show  to  the  men.  And  it 
would  never  out  of  my  mind  after,  though  I  began 
to  wish  I  hadn  't  thought  any  such  thing.  Every 
night,  when  I  went  to  bed,  I  would  lie  and  say  to 
myself,  To-morrow  is  the  day  for  me  to  go;  and  I  did 
not  like  to  be  alone  in  the  dark,  and  wanted  some 


PAUL    FELTON.  309 

one  with  me  to  touch  me  when  I  had  bad  dreams. 
And  when  I  waked  in  the  morning,  I  felt  as  if  some 
thing  dreadful  was  coming  upon  me  before  night. 
Well,  every  day,  I  don  't  know  how  it  was,  I  found  my 
self  near  this  ridge;  and  every  time,  I  went  farther  and 
farther  up  it,  though  I  grew  more  and  more  frightened. 
And  when  I  had  gone  as  far  as  I  dared,  I  was  afraid  to 
wait,  but  would  turn  and  make  away  so  fast,  that  many 
a  time  I  fell  down  some  of  these  places,  and  got  lamed 
and  bruised.  The  boys  began  to  think  something; 
and  would  whisper  each  other  and  look  at  me,  and 
when  they  found  I  saw  them,  they  would  turn  away. 
It  grew  hard  for  me  to  be  one  at  their  games,  though 
once  I  used  to  be  the  first  chosen  in.  I  can  't  tell 
how  it  was,  but  all  this  only  made  me  go  on;  and  as 
the  boys  kept  out  of  the  way,  I  began  to  feel  as  if  I 
must  do  what  I  had  thought  of,  and  as  if  there  was 
somebody,  I  couldn  't  think  who,  that  was  to  have  me, 
and  make  me  do  what  he  pleased.  So  it  went  on, 
Sir,  day  after  day,"  continued  the  lad,  in  a  weak,  timid 
tone,  but  comforted  at  finding  one  to  tell  his  story  to, 
"  till  at  last  I  reached  as  far  as  the  hollow  where  you 
just  now  frighted  me  so,  when  I  heard  you  near  me. 
I  didn  't  run  off,  as  I  used  to  from  the  other  places, 
but  sat  down  under  the  rock.  Then  I  looked  out, 
and  saw  the  trees.  I  tried  to  get  up  and  run  home, 
but  I  could  'nt;  I  dared  not  come  out  and  go  round  the 
corner  of  the  rock.  I  tried  to  look  another  way,  but 
my  eyes  seemed  fastened  on  the  trees:  I  couldn't 
take  'em  off  At  last  I  thought  something  told  me  it 
was  time  for  me  to  go  on.  I  got  up." 

Here  poor  Abel  shook  so,  that  he  seized  hold  of 
Paul's  arm  to  help  him,  Paul  recoiled,  as  if  an  un 
clean  creature  touched  him.  The  boy  shrunk  back. 


310  PAUL   FELTON. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Paul,  recovering  himself.  The 
boy  took  comfort  from  the  sound  of  another's  voice. 
—  "  I  went  a  little  way  down  the  hollow,  Sir,  as  if 
drawn  along.  Then  I  came  to  a  steep  place ;  I  put 
my  legs  over  to  let  myself  down;  my  knees  grew  so 
weak  I  dared  not  trust  myself;  I  tried  to  draw  them 
up,  but  the  strength  was  all  gone  out  of  them,  and, 
then,  my  feet  were  as  heavy  as  if  made  of  lead.  I 
gave  a  screech;  and  there  was  a  yell  close  to  me  and 
for  miles  round,  that  nigh  stunned  me.  I  can't  say 
how,  but  the  last  thing  I  knew  was  my  leaping  along 
the  rocks,  while  there  was  nothing  but  flames  of  fire 
shooting  all  round  me.  It  was  scarce  mid-day  when 
I  left  home;  and  when  I  came  to  myself  under  these 
locusts,  it  was  growing  dark." 

"  Rest  here  awhile,''  said  Paul,  looking  at  the  boy 
as  at  some  mysterious  being,  "  and  tell  out  your 
story." 

Glad  at  being  in  company,  the  boy  sat  down  upon 
the  grass,  and  went  on  with  his  tale.  —  "I  crawled 
home  as  well  as  I  could,  and  went  to  bed.  When  I 
was  falling  asleep  I  had  the  same  feeling  I  had  when 
sitting  over  the  rock.  I  dared  not  lie  in  bed  any 
longer;  for  I  couldn't  keep  awake  while  there.  Glad 
was  I  when  the  day  broke,  and  I  saw  a  neighbour 
open  his  door,  and  come  out.  I  was  not  well  all  day; 
and  I  tried  to  think  myself  more  ill  than  I  was,  be 
cause  I  somehow  thought  that,  then,  1  needn't  go  to 
the  wood.  But  the  next  day  He  was  not  to  be  put 
off;  and  I  went,  though  I  cried  and  prayed  all  the 
way,  that  I  might  not  be  made  to  go.  But  I  could 
not  stop  till  I  had  got  over  the  hill,  and  reached  the 
sand  round  the  wood.  When  I  put  my  foot  on  it,  all 
the  joints  in  me  jerked  as  if  they  would  not  hold  to- 


PAUL   FELTON. 

gether;    so  that  I  cried  out  with  the  pain.     When  I 
came  under  the  trees,  there  was  a  deep  sound,  and 
great  shadows  were  all  round  me.     My  hair  stood  on 
end,  and  my  eyes  kept  glimmering;  yet  I  couldn't  go 
back.     I  went  on  till  I  found  a  crow's  nest.     I  climb 
ed  the  tree,  and  took  out  the  eggs.     The  old  crow 
kept  flying  round  and  round  me.     As  soon  as  I  felt 
the  eggs  in  my  hand,   and  my  work  done,  I  dropped 
from  the  tree,   and  ran  for  the  hollow.     I  can  't  tell 
how  it  was,  but  it  seemed  to  me  I  didn  't  gain  a  foot  of 
ground  —  it  was  just  as  if  the  whole  wood  went  with 
me.     Then  I  thought  He  had  me  his.     The  ground 
began  to  bend  and  the  trees  to  move.     At  last  I  was 
nigh  blind.     I  struck  against  one  tree  and  another  till 
I  fell  to  the  ground.     How  long  I  lay  there  I  can  't 
tell;  but  when  I  came  to,  I  was  on  the  sand,  the  sun 
blazing  hot  upon  me,   and  my  skin  scorched  up.     I 
was  so  stiff,   and  ached  so,  I  could  hardly  stand  up 
right.     I  didn 't  feel  or  think  any  thing  after  this;  and 
hardly  knew  where  I  was,   till  somebody  came  and 
touched  me,  and  asked  me  whether  I  was 'walking  in 
my  sleep;  and  I  looked  up,  and  found  myself  close 
home. 

18  The  boys  began  to  gather  round  me,  as  if  I  were 
something  strange ;  and  when  I  looked  at  them,  they 
would  move  back  from  me.  —  '  What  have  you  been 
doing,  Abel?'  one  of  them  asked  me,  at  last.  —  c  No 
good,  I  warrant  you,'  answered  another,  who  stood 
back  of  me.  And  when  I  turned  round  to  speak  to 
him,  he  drew  behind  the  others,  as  if  afraid  I  should 
harm  him:  —  and  I  was  too  weak  and  frightened  to  hurt 
a  fly. — 'See  his  hands;  they  are  stained  all  over.' 
'  And  there  's  a  crow's  egg,  as  I'm  alive! '  said  another. 
'  And  the  crow  is  the  Devil's  bird,  Tom,  isn  't  it  ?' 


312 


PAUL   FELTON. 


asked  a  little  boy.  <  O,  Abel,  you  've  been  to  that 
wood,  and  made  yourself  over  to  Him.3  — They  moved 
off,  one  after  another,  every  now  and  then  turning 
round  and  looking  at  me  as  if  I  were  cursed.  After 
this  they  would  not  speak  to  me,  nor  come  nigh  me. 
I  heard  people  talking,  and  saw  them  going  about,  but 
not  one  of  them  all  could  I  speak  to,  or  get  to  come 
near  me;  it  was  dreadful,  being  so  alone!  I  met  a 
boy  that  used  to  be  with  me  all  day  long;  and  I 
begged  him  not  to  go  off  from  me  so,  and  to  stop,  if 
it  were  only  for  a  moment.  '  You  played  with  me 
once/  said  I;  '  and  won't  you  so  much  as  look  at  me, 
or  ask  me  how  I  am,  when  I  am  so  weak  and  ill,  too?' 
He  began  to  hang  back  a  little,  and  I  thought,  from 
his  face,  that  he  pitied  me.  I  could  have  cried  for  joy ; 
and  was  going  up  to  him,  but  he  turned  away.  I 
called  out  after  him,  telling  him  that  I  would  not 
so  much  as  touch  him  with  my  finger,  or  come  any 
nigher  to  him,  if  he  would  only  stop  and  speak 
one  word  to  me;  but  he  went  away  shaking  his  head, 
and  muttering  something,  I  hardly  knew  what,  how 
that  I  did  not  belong  to  them,  but  was  the  Evil  One's 
now.  I  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  cried,  and  wished 
that  I  was  dead;  for  I  couldn't  help  it,  though  it  was 
wicked  in  me  to  do  so." 

"And  is  there  no  one,"  asked  Paul,  "  who  will 
notice  you,  or  speak  to  you?  Do  you  live  so  alone 
now?"  It  made  his  heart  ache  to  look  down  upon 
the  pining,  forlorn  creature  before  him. 

"  Not  a  soul,"  whined  out  the  boy.  "  My  Grand 
mother  is  dead  now;  arid  only  the  gentlefolks  give  me 
any  thing;  for  they  don  't  seem  afraid  of  me,  though 
they  look  as  if  they  didn  't  like  me,  and  wanted  me 


PAUL   FELTON.  313 

gone.  All  I  can,  I  get  to  eat  in  the  woods,  and  I  beg 
out  of  the  village.  But  I  dare  not  go  far,  because  I 
don 't  know  when  He  will  want  me.  But  I  am  not 
alone;  He's  with  me  day  and  night.  As  I  go  along 
the  street  in  the  day  time,  I  feel  Him  near  me,  though 
I  can't  see  Him;  and  it  is  as  if  He  were  speaking 
to  me;  and  yet  I  don  't  hear  any  words.  He  makes 
me  follow  Him  to  that  wood;  and  I  have  to  sit  the 
whole  day  where  you  found  me;  and  I  dare  not  com 
plain  nor  move,  till  I  feel  He  will  let  me  go.  I  've 
looked  at  the  pines,  sometimes,  till  I  have  seen  spirits 
moving  all  through  them.  O,  'tis  an  awful  place:  They 
breathe  cold  upon  me  when  He  makes  me  go  there." 

"Poor  wretch,"  said  Paul. 

tc  I  'm  weak  and  hungry,  and  yet  when  I  try  to  eat, 
something  chokes  me;  I  don  't  love  what  I  eat." 

"  Come  along  with  me,  and  you  shall  have  some 
thing  to  nourish  and  warm  you;  for  you  are  pale,  and 
shiver,  and  look  cold  here  in  the  very  sun." 

The  boy  looked  up  at  Paul,  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  his  cheeks,  at  hearing  one  speak  so  kindly  to 
him.  He  got  up,  and  followed  meekly  after,  to  the 
house. 

Paul  seeing  a  servant  in  the  yard,  ordered  the  boy 
something  to  eat.  The  man  cast  his  eye  upon  Abel, 
and  then  looked  at  Paul  as  if  he  had  not  understood 
him. —  "  I  spoke  distinctly  enough,"  said  Paul.  "And 
don't  you  see  that  the  boy  is  nigh  starved?"  — •  The 
man  gave  a  mysterious  look  at  both  of  them,  and  with 
a  shake  of  his  head,  as  he  turned  away,  went  to  do 
as  he  was  bid. 

"What  means  the  fellow?"  said  Paul  to  himself, 
as  he  entered  the  house.  ec  Does  he  take  me  to  be 
bound  to  Satan,  too?  Yet  there  may  be  bonds  upon 


314  PAUL   FELTOX. 

the  soul,  though  we  know  it  not;  and  evil  spirits  at 
work  within  us,  of  which  we  little  dream.  And  are 
there  no  beings  but  those  seen  of  mortal  eye,  or  felt 
by  mortal  touch  ?  Are  there  not  passing  in  and  around 
this  piece  of  moving  mould,  in  which  the  spirit  is  pent 
up,  those  whom  it  hears  not  ?  those  whom  it  has  no  finer 
sense  whereby  to  commune  with  ?  Are  all  the  instant 
joys  that  come  and  go,  we  know  not  whence  nor 
whither,  but  creations  of  the  mind?  Or  are  they  not, 
rather,  bright  and  heavenly  messengers,  whom,  when 
this  spirit  is  set  free,  it  will  see  in  all  their  beauty?  — 
whose  sweet  sounds  it  will  then  drink  in?  —  Yes,  it 
is,  it  is  so;  and  all  around  us  is  populous  with  beings, 
now  invisible  to  us  as  this  circling  air." 

So  fully  had  such  thoughts  absorbed  Paul's  mind, 
that  when,  upon  entering  the  room,  he  met  Esther 
and  her  father,  he  started  as  if  the  sight  of  flesh  and 
blood  were  new  to  him.  At  dinner  he  seemed  but 
half  conscious  of  what  was  before  him ;  his  look  and 
manner  were  abstracted;  and  when  he  replied  to 
any  remark,  his  answers  were  abrupt  and  from  the 
purpose. 

"  You  are  a  good  deal  of  a  dreamer,  I  know,"  said 
Mr.  Waring  at  last;  "  but  I  think  I  never  saw  you 
less  awake  to  what  is  homely  and  substantial  in  this 
world  we  live  in." 

"  They  sleep,  and  their  eyes  are  sealed,  who  do 
not  look  beyond  it,"  said  Paul. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  Esther;  but  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  husband,  who  did  not  observe  it,  for 
his  were  cast  downward.  Her  heart  beat  with  uneasy 
sensations,  and  uncertain  thoughts  troubled  her.  She 
tried  to  command  herself;  and  as  soon  as  she  could, 
she  spoke  to  him  in  an  affectionate,  cheerful  voice. 


PAUL   FELTON.  315 

He  looked  suddenly  up  at  her  with  a  fond  gaze,  as  if 
an  angel  had  spoken  to  him  out  of  a  cloud. — "  Ah," 
said  she,  "  have  I  called  you  back  to  earth  again?" 

"  Scarce  to  earth,"  he  said,  his  suffused  eye  resting 
on  her  beautiful  face.  —  He  had  quite  forgotten  that 
any  one  was  by,  till  the  old  gentleman  spoke.  The 
blood  went  quick  to  his  cheek. 

"What,  so  long  married,  and  a  lover  yet?"  cried 
Mr.  Waring.  "  I  thought  love  would  have  become 
a  dearer  sort  of  friendship  ere  this." 

"I  doubt,"  answered  Paul,  glad  to  turn  the  affair 
into  a  speculation,  "I  doubt  whether,  in  certain  minds, 
love  ever  so  changes  its  nature.  It  is  a  part  of  their 
constitution,  and  endures  as  long  as  they  do;  at  least, 
I  think  so;  though  I  cannot  tell  what  old  age  and 
gray  hairs  may  do  toward  a  change.  It  is  the  only 
thing  that  has  made  me  recoil  from  the  thought  of 
being  old." 

"And  what  would  you  make  of  a  pair  of  married 
lovers  of  threescore?" 

"I  like  not  thinking  of  it,"  he  said,  with  a  fitful 
expression  of  pain.  "I  would  rather  part  soul  and 
body,  than  lose  long  cherished  and  dear  thoughts. 
Nor  do  I  believe  they  will  be  lost.  Those  who  are 
made  ready  for  a  happy  state  hereafter,  must  rest  their 
chief  hopes  and  pleasures,  even  in  their  attachments 
here,  on  that  which  is  fitted  to  live  forever.  The 
corruption  of  humanity  that  is  now  about  us  will  drop 
off,  but  essentially,  I  trust,  our  feelings  and  joys  will 
remain  the  same.  What  makes  my  soul's  chief 
earthly  happiness  would  be  my  misery,  did  I  not  be 
lieve  it  eternal,  like  the  soul  itself.  To  die,  will  be 
but  the  full  opening  of  this  same  mind,  with  all  its 
good  affections,  (which  scarcely  bud  here,)  to  the 


316  PAUL    FELTON. 

light  and  the  sweet  air  of  heaven.  Is  what  we  tread 
on  here,  truth?  and  our  imaginations  a  lie?  I  would 
believe  that  these  high  and  gladdening  conceptions 
were  not  all  a  cheat,  but  that  they  will  one,  day  open 
in  glory  on  our  cleared  and  delighted  vision.  What 
is  beautiful  and  true  here,  though  it  perish  for  a 
season,  will  put  forth  again  in  more  perfect  beauty  in 
the  morning  light  of  that  sun  which  shall  never  go 
down.  Pardon  my  warmth,  Sir,7'  said  he,  suddenly 
checking  himself. 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Waring,  "you  think  that  not 
a  little  of  the  after  existence  of  the  happy  will  be 
made  up  of  the  same  affections  that  possess  us  here, 
purified,  exalted  and  influenced,  no  doubt,  you  mean, 
by  a  constant  and  a  fuller  love,  and  a  clearer  knowl 
edge  of  God." 

"  Much  so,  Sir.  The  same  affections,  conforming 
themselves  to  a  change  of  state  and  circumstances. 
But  that  love  of  God,  hereafter,  of  which  you  speak, 
that  consciousness  of  Him,  must  be  the  principle  of 
life  in  them  here,  too,  or  they  will  live  only  in  time, 
by  and  by  to  rot  forever." 

"  Has  not  your  religion  too  much  to  do  with  the 
senses?  " 

"  I  think  not.  — As  if  sin  had  not  set  us  far  enough 
off  from  God  and  the  spiritual,  we  give  to  all  that 
relates  to  these  an  abstract  character,  and  then  put 
our  faculties  upon  the  stretch,  to  reach  to  some 
realizing  apprehension  of  them:  we  make  God  a  sort  of 
universal  intelligence,  take  for  mere  metaphor  those 
terms  in  which  he  speaks  of  his  affections  as  so  like 
our  own,  and,  then,  try  after  a  love  of  Him:  —  we  des 
troy  all  personation,  as  if  it  were  an  easier  thing  to 
fasten  our  affections  upon  an  abstract  principle;  and 


PAUL   FELTON.  317 

thus  war  against  one  of  the  strongest  propensities  of 
our  nature,  —  the  manifestations  of  himself  in  the  out 
ward  world,  and  the  pervading  character,  the  leading 
facts  and  declarations  of  his  written  Revelation: — 
We  have  not  learned  that  the  main  distinction  be 
tween  us,  the  created,  and  Him,  the  Creator,  is  that 
between  sin  and  holiness,  finite  and  infinite ;  and  we 
shall  awake  in  utter  amaze  in  the  other  world,  to  find 
how  little  we  differ  from  God,  in  kind,  though  infinitely 
in  degree:  In  short,  shall  we  not  awake  '  in  his  like 
ness?'  Though  God,  as  it  were,  lifts  up  the  small 
flower  at  our  feet,  and  asks  us  to  look  on  it,  and  see 
how  he  cares  for  every  little  thing,  and  how  he  de 
lights  in  its  beauty;  though  he  has  done  more  than 
this,  and  has  come  very  nigh  to  us,  taking  upon  Him 
our  own  natures,  yet,  through  the  fatuity  of  sin,  we 
persist  in  making  him  a  God  afar  off:  —  We  do  not, 
if  I  may  so  speak,  humanize  our  religion  enough;  and, 
thus,  we  deprive  ourselves  of  much  assured  rest  and 
strong  heart-comfort.  We  have  burned  our  idols  of 
wood,  and  broken  those  of  stone,  and,  now,  worship  an 
Idea.  Though  our  God  has  come  to  us,  standing  be 
tween  these  two  extremes,  it  may  be  said  of  us,  as 
was  said,  by  John,  of  those  of  old,  '  There  standeth 
one  among  you  whom  ye  know  not;'  and  so  long  as 
we  know  not  Him,  we  cannot  know  ourselves,  or  un 
derstand  the  unity  of  duality  in  our  own  natures  — 
the  Divine-Human,  —  we  cannot  learn  the  meaning 
of  the  first  words  spoken  concerning  us  in  the  Book 
of  God — *  Let  us  make  man  in  our  own  image,  after 
our  likeness.3 

"  You  may  perhaps,  Sir,  think  me  presumptuous, 
in  reasoning  about  that  of  which  we  know  so  little; 
though,  if  I  deceive  not  myself,  it  is  a  reasoning 


318  PAUL    FELTON. 

which  comes  of  a  sense  of  humble  and  willing  depend 
ence,  and  not  of  self-dependent  pride.  But  I  began 
with  simply  saying  what  were  my  hopes  and  wishes, 
and  what  gave  me  here,  that  which  seemed  to  me 
like  a  foretaste  of  joys  hereafter,  and  had  at  times 
persuaded  me,  that  what  I  felt  was  not  a  vain  imagin- 

["  ation.  I  cannot  so  separate  the  natures  of  the  mind 
and  senses  as  some  would  do.  There  is  not  an 
earthly  beauty  I  look  upon  that  has  not  something 
spiritual  in  it  to  me.  And  when  my  mind  is  fair  and 
open,  and  soul  right,  there  is  not  a  flower  J  see,  that 
does  not  move  my  heart  to  feel  towards  it  as  a  child 
of  God.  All  that  is,  to  my  mind,  is  a  type  of  what 
shall  be;  and  my  own  being  and  soul  seem  to  me  as 
if  linked  with  it  to  eternity.  I  know  that  to  many 
this  is  mere  folly,  and  that  even  to  those  of  highest 
reach  it  is  but  vague;  for  what  can  we  have  while 
here  but  intimations  and  dim  semblances  of  eternity  ? 
Yet,  to  question  it  because  he  knows  no  more,  a  man 
might  as  well  deny  he  has  a  heart ;  for  he  will  find 
that  growing  the  more  a  mystery,  the  more  he  studies 
it.  We  think  of  angels  as  having  shapes  and  voices; 
and  if  the  unbelieving  would  say  that  the  Writ  is  false, 
how  came  the  mind  of  man,  from  the  beginning,  to 
conceive  of  such  things  as  true?  Is  that  connected 
with  our  highest  faith,  and  what  seems  inborn  in  the 

C^jm'nd,  a  lie?" 

Paul  became  silent;  and  he  was  filled  with  happier 
and  calmer  emotions  than  he  had  known  for  a  long 
time.  Esther  observed  his  tranquillity,  and  for  a  while 
she  was  blest  with  the  belief  that  it  would  be  lasting. 
She  knew  that  such  thoughts  were  not  strangers  to 
him;  but  she  had  seen  them,  before,  only  when  they 
came  and  went  swiftly,  lifting  him  suddenly  and  wildly 


PAUL    FELTON.  319 

out  of  horror  and  despair,  to  a  rapturous  height,  then 
leaving  him  to  sink  deeper  than  ever.  When  his 
dark  thoughts  and  passions  seized  him,  they  seemed 
to  her  more  like  outward  powers  which  drove  him 
whither  they  would,  than  like  things  springing  from 
his  own  mind  and  heart.  There  was  a  mystery  about 
them  that  made  her  fear  when  they  took  him,  and  her 
heart  bled  with  pity  for  him. 

There  are  souls  which  have  hours  of  bright  and 
holy  aspirations,  when  they  feel  as  if  nothing  of  earth 
or  sin  could  touch  them  more;  but  in  the  midst  of 
their  clear  and  joyous  calm  they  find  some  dark  and 
frightful  passion,  like  an  ugly  devil,  beginning  to  stir 
within  them.  Their  minds  try  to  fly  from  it,  but,  as  if 
it  saw  its  hour,  it  seizes  on  its  prey  with  a  fanged 
hold,  and  there  is  no  escape.  Perhaps  there  are  no 
minds,  of  the  highest  intellectual  order,  that  have  not 
known  moments,  when  they  would  have  fled  from 
thoughts  and  sensations  which  they  felt  to  be  like 
visitants  from  hell. 

Paul's  mind  was  of  this  structure;  and  so  long  and 
violently  had  he  suffered  under  such  influences,  that 
his  natural  superstition,  heightened  by  them,  had 
almost  persuaded  him  his  passions  were  good  or  evil 
spirits,  which  had  power  to  bless  or  curse  him.  The 
story  and  the  appearance  of  poor  Abel  haunted  him. 
He  called  it  insanity  in  Abel;  but  he  could  not  shake 
off  the  feeling  that  the  miserable  wretch  was  the  victim 
of  a  demon.  He  began*  to  tremble  for  himself;  and 
when  he  felt  his  violent  passions  in  motion,  the  thought 
that  they  were  powers  it  was  in  vain  to  struggle 
against,  almost  drove  him  mad. 

The  night  for  the  ball  at  last  came,  and  Esther's 
spirits  rose  as  the  hour  drew  nigh.     She  had  left 


320  PAUL   FELTON. 

home  but  little  for  a  long  time  past,  and  though  her 
love  for  Paul  was  almost  devotion,  and  there  was  a 
peculiar  sentiment  and  delicacy  in  his  little  attentions 
to  her  and  the  fondness  he  showed  her,  yet  an  undefined 
awe,  a  dread  of  the  happening  of  something  fatal, 
oppressed  her  daily  more  and  more ;  and  any  change 
seemed  to  be  the  lifting  of  a  weight  from  the  heart,  to 
let  it  beat  freely  again.  Her  mind  and  senses  were 
peculiarly  sensitive,  and  exquisitely  alive  to  enjoy 
ment:  her  soul  seemed  to  be  in  whatever  she  said  and 
did.  When  Paul  was  happy,  he  dwelt  on  this  with  a 
delight  that  cannot  be  told;  but  when  a  gloom  hung 
on  his  mind,  and  he  saw  her  eloquent,  impassioned 
face  and  earnest  gestures,  he  remembered  how  de 
ceitful  and  prone  to  sin  are  the  best  hearts,  how 
soon  the  warmed  passions  may  turn  from  good  to  evil, 
and  he  hardly  dared  look  on  what  he  indistinctly 
dreaded. 

Esther  came  bounding  towards  Paul  with  a  step  as 
light  as  if  she  needed  only  the  air  to  tread  on. 
"  Rouse  you,  dreamer,"  said  she,  playfully  jogging 
him,  —  "we  are  late.  Look  up,  and  vow  to  me  that 
I  was  never  half  so  beautiful  before. 

"  O,  that  I  can  vow  to  you  from  day  to  day;  for 
you  grow  in  beauty  on  me,  as  you  grow  closer  and 
closer  to  my  heart." 

"  What  an  angelic  creature  I  shall  seem  to  you  at 
fifty,  then  !  How  lucky  for  me  that  I  am  yours;  for 
who  else  would  praise  my  beauty,  when  I  arn  turned 
of  two  score?  " 

"  Be  not  too  sure,  Esther;  my  eyes  may  be  shut 
to  all  beauty  before  that  time  comes.  Then  you  may 
find  others  to  praise  it  in  you  —  if  you  will  believe 
them." 


PAUL   FELTON.  321 

"Not  of  death  now,  Paul,  not  of  death  now!  — 
Come,  let  us  be  going.  We  have  lived  here  in  this 
stillness  so  long,  that  the  sound  of  pipe  and  tabor  will 
stir  my  blood  like  a  new  come  Greenland  summer." 

"  It  is  at  a  full  and  quick  beat  now,  if  I  feel  it  right," 
said  he,  holding  her  by  the  wrist;  "a  little  faster 
might  do  you  harm." 

"  Beat  it  slow  or  fast,  Paul,  there  's  not  a  drop  of 
it  courses  through  the  heart,  that  is  not  warm  to  me 
with  a  love  for  you.  —  Think  you  I  profess  too  much?  " 

"No,  not  too  much." 

"  Why  then  look  you  so  sad  upon  it?  " 

"  To  remember  that  I  cannot  always  think  so." 

"  And  why  not  always?  Do  you  hold  me  of  so  un 
stable  a  nature?  " 

"  Ask  me  not  what  I  cannot  answer  you.  It  is  not 
myself,"  he  cried;  "they  haunt  me.  I  cannot  scape 
them.  —  Away,  away,  I'm  not  your  prey  yet!"  — 
He  walked  the  room  violently,  his  clasped  hands 
pressing  down  upon  his  head,  as  if  his  brain  would 
burst  with  its  working.  His  eyes  were  set,  and  his 
teeth  ground  against  each  other.  He  stopped,  and 
his  frame  loosened  from  its  tenseness.  —  "  It's  over!  " 
he  sighed  out,  spreading  his  arms  wide,  as  if  just  set 
free. 

Esther  shook  with  fear  as  she  stood  fixed,  gazing 
at  him.  When  the  change  to  quiet  came  on,  she 
went  to  him. —  "  Paul,  my  husband,  come  to  me;  tell 
me  what  terrible  thoughts  they  are  that  tear  you  so." 

"Thoughts,  call  you  them?  Visions,  shadows, 
horrible,  horrible  shadows!  Speak  not  of  them;  call 
them  not  round  me  again. — O,  Esther,  I  arn  sore  af 
flicted  ; —  I  would  I  might  not  suffer  so.  Pray  for  my 
soul's  peace,  Esther.  It  longs,  it  longs  to  rest  quietly 
21 


322  PAUL    FELTON". 

in   its   love    for   you.  —  Put  your    arms   round  me, 
There!  there!" 

"  If  they  would  keep  you  thus,  I  would  shelter  you 
day  and  night,  Paul,  and  look  and  think  on  nothing 
but  you." 

"  Even  here  I  am  not  safe;  there  's  no  place  of  re 
fuge  for  the  hunted  soul*" 

"  Above,  there  is,  Paul,  if  we  but  reach  upward.'" 

"  I  've  striven  'u\  agony  to  reach  it;  but  when  they 
will,  these  horrors,  that  have  no  name,  pluck  me 
down!  But,  come,  they  've  left  me  now;  and  the 
bosom's  free  again."  —  He  held  her  at  arm's  length, 
and  stood  gazing  at  her.  —  "  And  could  dark,  terri 
ble  thoughts  shake  me  so,  before  all  this  light  and 
beauty !  Why,  Esther,  I  feel  by  you,  like  a  cast  out 
angel  by  the  side  of  one  who  had  stood  faithful.  — 
I  've  held  you  too  long.  Your  father  waits  for  you : 
away,  and  forget  my  madness." 

"  Not  without  you,  Paul." 

"  What,  I!  No,  in  faith!  A  married  pair  go  re 
gularly  coupled  at  the  hour  set!  No,  no,  I  'm  not 
such  a  rustic  as  you  take  me  for." 

"  Do  not  so  suddenly  trifle  in  this  way,  Paul;  it 
grieves  me  more  than  all;  it  is  not  your  disposition." 

"In  earnest,  then,  the  blood  heaves  too  violently- 
through  me  yet;  when  it  flows  quietly  I'll  come  to 
you." 

He  pressed  her  hand  gently,  as  he  put  her  into  the 
carriage,  and  gave  her  one  of  those  smiles  which  al 
ways  went  like  sunshine  to  Esther's  heart.  — He  saw 
her  look  back  after  him  as  the  carriage  turned  down 
the  road,  and  stretched  his  arms  out  towards  her  as  if 
to  clasp  her  to  him.  As  he  raised  his  hands  upward,  — 
"  O,  heaven,"  he  saida  "  thou  hast  given  her  to  me 


PAUL    FELTON.  32S 

as  more  than  an  earthly  blessing;  let  it  not  prove  a 
curse  upon  my  soul!" — He  felt  something  clasp  his 
knees;  and  looking  down,  he  sprang  as  from  the  coil 
of  a  serpent.  —  Were  you  sent  to  snare  me  now,  you 
imp  of  Hell  ?  How  crawled  you  here,  and  for  what  ?' ' 
"  I  watched  for  you  under  this  thorn,"  whined  out 
poor  Abel;  "for  I  shall  die  if  I  cannot  see  you  and 
speak  to  you.  And  when  you  prayed,  I  came  up  to 
you,  to  have  you  pray  for  me,  that  I  might  be  spared 
going,  if  'twere  only  for  this  one  night." 

"  I  've  sins  and  tortures  of  my  own  enough.  Pray 
for  yourself,  wretch." 

"I  dare  not,  I  dare  not,"  cried  Abel,  "lest  He 
come  and  torment  me.  O,  help  me.  You  were  good 
to  me  once." 

"  And  what  mortal  might  can  shield  you  against  un 
earthly  powers?  " 

"  I  feel  safer  when  near  you.  though  you  make  me 
tremble.  Not  a  soul  beside  will  so  much  as  hear  me 
when  I  call  after  them.  I  've  thought  that,  perhaps, 
nobody  but  you  could  hear  me  any  more." 

"And  why  I? — Don't  put  your  lean  hand  on  me!" 
Abel  shrunk  back.  The  loathing  that  Paul  felt 
turned  to  pity.  "Come,  you  are  hungry,  and  must 
have  something  to  strengthen  you."  Paul  took  the 
boy  into  the  house;  and  having  seen  him  fed,  ^ave 
him  an  old  rug  to  lie  upon.  "  Sleep  there,  Abel ;  you 
shall  not  to  the  wood  to-night."  Abel  felt  comforted 
and  protected  for  the  first  time  since  the  thought  of 
the  wood  entered  his  head.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was 
in  a  sound  sleep. 

Paul  took  his  way  along  the  greensward  to  the  vil 
lage.  As  he  passed  the  bush  under  which  Abel  had 
been  sitting,  he  involuntary  moved  a  little  aside  from 


324  PAUL  FELTON. 

it.  — Why  has  that  boy  fastened  so  on  me?  I  like  it 
not.  There  will  no  good  come  of  it.  When  he  is 
near  me,  I  feel  him  as  one  who  is  cursed,  and  bring 
ing  a  curse.  The  powers  of  darkness  put  him  be 
tween  me  and  mine ;  and  promptings  of  dreadful  por 
tent  are  whispered  in  my  ear."  His  mind  grew  more 
disturbed  as  he  went  forward,  ruminating  on  these 
things;  till  having  nearly  reached  the  end  of  his  walk, 
he  stopped  under  a  large  tree,  that  he  might  gain 
sufficient  composure  and  a  clear  brow  to  enter  the 
room. 

Not  a  leaf  moved,  and  the  stars  shone  in  silence. 
Suddenly  the  music  burst  forth  from  the  hall:  to 
Paul  it  was  like  a  crash  that  jarred  the  still  universe. 
"  'T  is  hateful  to  me;  —  noise,  and  folly,  and  hot,  hot 
blood!  Warm  hands,  and  flushed  cheeks,  and  high- 
beating  bosoms!  And  she,  who  an  hour  ago  would 
have  sheltered  Paul,  and  looked  and  thought  on 
none  but  him!  No  more  to  her  now  than  if  he 
had  never  been — or  had  slept  a  twelvemonth  in  his 
grave!  These  creatures  are  beautiful  and  fair,  and 
would  be  innocent  as  flowers,  did  none  but  heaven's 
winds  visit  them;  but  the  world's  breath  blows  on 
them,  and  taints  them.  Beings  all  of  sensations;  and, 
so,  love  is  grateful  to  them.  But  it  roots  not  deep  and 
silently  as  in  man ;  from  whom  to  pluck  it  out,  tears 
up  heart  and  all.  —  Leave  me,  leave  me,  let  me  not 
think  on't!"  He  rushed  forward,  as  if  to  fly  from 
the  thought. 

Scarcely  considering  whither  he  was  going,  he  was 
soon  before  the  folding-doors  of  the  hall.  Coming 
out  of  the  quiet  and  the  dim  light,  the  flare  of  the 
lamps,  the  whirl  and  confused  motions,  and  the  babel 
sounds  of  a  ball-room,  breaking  suddenly  upon  him, 


PAUL  FELTOX.  325 

blinded  and  confounded  him.  He  pressed  his  brow, 
to  recover  his  senses  a  little,  and  then  entered  the 
room. 

One  who  is  unused  to  such  scenes  is  hardly  able, 
at  first,  to  tell  his  familiar  acquaintances.  Paul  was 
in  anxious  search  of  one,  as  he  passed  round  the 
room,  close  to  the  wall.  He  had  just  gone  by  her 
without  perceiving  her,  when  a  well  known  laugh, 
though  louder  than  usual,  made  him  suddenly  stop. 
As  he  turned,  Esther  sprang  forward  in  the  dance  as 
if  going  up  into  the  air.  The  bright  smile  of  pleasure 
was  on  her  face,  as  she  gave  Frank  her  hand;  and 
as  they  bounded  swiftly  by  Paul,  without  observing 
him,  he  saw  the  warm  glow  upon  her  cheek,  her  eyes 
turned  a  little  upward,  suffused  and  sparkling,  her 
dark,  floating  curls  rising,  then  just  touching  her 
snowy  forehead,  then  lifted  with  the  motion  again, 
her  bosom  tinged  with  a  delicate  tint,  and  moving 
with  a  fluttering  beat.  "  Heaven  and  hell!  "  said  he 
to  himself,  "  ye  work  side  by  side  in  this  world,  though 
with  opposite  intent,"  Every  nerve  in  his  body 
seemed  to  shoot  and  burn  with  electric  fire.  The 
sensation  passed  off,  and  left  a  weak,  sick  feeling;  so 
that  he  could  scarcely  stand.  A  cold  damp  stood  on 
his  pale  brow  and  trembling  hands.  He  drew  be 
hind  a  couple  of  gentlemen,  who  were  talking  together 
while  looking  on  the  dance,  and  leaned  himself  against 
the  wall.  For  a  time  he  dared  not  look  up;  nor  did 
he  hear  any  sound  till  the  conversation  of  the  gentle 
men  suddenly  drew  his  attention. 

"  What  an  exquisite  figure,  and  how  pliable  and 
graceful,"  remarked  one.  "  Every  limb  is  full  of 
life." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other;  "  and  how  sinuous  the  mo,-» 


326  PAUL  FELTON. 

tions!  They  run  into  each  other  like  the  swells  of  the 
sea.  Oh,  she's  a  very  Perdita  in  the  dance.  Be 
fore  he  went  away  Frank  was  an  elegant  looking 
fellow,  and  travel  has  improved  him  wonderfully.  I 
would  bet  my  head  on  it,  that  she  is  sighing  this  mo 
ment  at  thinking  she  said  him,  nay,  or  had  not  waited 
to  see  him  what  he  is  now,  that  she  might  to-night 
unsay  it  again." 

4C  Then  she  is  a  betrothed  damsel,  ha?  Poor  girl, 
that  she  should  be  in  such  haste.  I  warrant  you,  this 
dancing  partnership  will  put  thoughts  into  her  head 
which  a  lover  would  hardly  like  rinding  there.  It  will 
be  well  for  her,  by  and  by,  if  she  does  not  talk  in  her 
sleep." 

"  If  she  can't  teach  her  tongue  silence  at  such  a 
time,  it  is  a  gone  case  with  her  already,  for  she  was 
married  long  ago." 

"And  what  gallant  knight  won  her?  He  must 
keep  watch  and  ward,  for  in  faith  I  'm  half  a  mind  to 
make  off  with  her  myself,  could  I  bring  her  to  it." 

"No  hard  matter  that,  if  report  speaks  her  lord 
truly.  JTis  a  sort  of  Vulcan  and  Venus  match,  I 
am  told,  and  that  he  looks  as  black  as  if  just  out  of  a 
smithy,  and  is  glum,  and  says  nothing.  By  all  ac 
counts,  they  are  dead  opposites,both  in  mind  and  body. 
She  will  be  on  the  wing  all  night,  I  vouch  for  it,  and 
make  up  for  the  last  month's  caging." 

"  Poor  girl,  I  pity  her.  But  how  could  she  find  it 
in  her  heart  to  refuse  Ridgley?  I  should  have 
thought  that  for  a  man  like  him,  once  asking  would 
have  been  enough,  any  where." 

"  Why,  lord,  she  no  more  meant  it,  than  she  did  to 
die  a  maid.  The  blockhead  might  have  known  she 
was  a  coquette,  as  every  one  else  did,  and  that  she 


PAUL  FELTON. 


327 


was  but  teazing  him.  One,  with  half  an  eye,  might 
have  seen  what  a  favourite  he  was  with  her.  Why, 
she  would  have  gone  to  church  barefoot  rather  than 
not  have  had  him.  The  fool  took  her  in  earnest,  and 
went  upon  his  travels,  and  she  married  to  vex  him. 
Silly  things!  Unless  she  wears  the  widow's  stole, 
they  may  pine  their  hearts  out  now  —  or  else  the  stars 
must  wink  at  it.  But  come  away  ;  I  '11  look  no  longer, 
lest  I  covet  my  neighbour's  wife."  —  And  off  they 
moved,  arm  in  arm,  casting  their  eyes  back  upon 
Esther  as  they  went. 

Every  word  they  uttered  entered  Paul's  soul.     His 
brain  felt  tightened,  like  sinews,   with  the  dreadful 
thoughts  that  rose  in  his  mind ;  and  the  misgivings 
and  surmises  of  his  doubting   and  gloomy   soul,  on 
which,   till  now,   he  scarcely  dared  send  a  glance, 
were  turned  to  certainties;  and  he  fastened  on  them, 
as  if  under  the  working  of  a  charm.     He  pressed  with 
his  back  against  the  wall,  his  eyes  fixed,  as  if  crowds 
of  spectres  were  rising  up  before  him;  and  his  hair 
stood  on  end,  as  if  life  were  in  it.     Those  near  him 
observed  his  strange   appearance,   and  drew  slowly 
back,  looking  at  him  and  then  at  each  other  in  silence, 
as  in  wonder  and  fear  at  what  they  saw.     He  took 
no  notice  of  what  was  passing,  but  seemed  to  be  gaz , 
ing  on  something  terrible  which  none  saw  but  he. 
The  dancing  had  stopped,  and  a  mysterious  silence 
spread   like    a  shadow  over  that  part  of  the  room. 
Esther  spoke  in  a  clear,  gay  tone  to  some  one  by  her. 
The  sound  struck  his  ear;  he  leaped  forward,  his  eye 
still  fixed  on  the  floor.  —  "  Ha!  are  ye  there ?"  he 
muttered.  —  Presently  a  change  seemed  taking  place 
in  him,  and  he  looked  round,  as  if  asking  where  he 


was. 


328  PAUL  FELTON. 

Mr.  Waring,  who  observed  that  something  unusual 
had  happened,  went  that  way,  and  found  Paul  stand 
ing  alone,  his  eye  wandering,  his  body  trembling, 
his  lips  livid,  and  the  sweat  standing  in  big  drops  on 
his  broad,  pale  forehead.  Seizing  Paul  by  the  arm, 
as  he  called  him  by  name,  and  shaking  him  to  rouse 
him,  Paul  started,  giving  the  old  gentleman  a  look  of 
amazement.  —  "  What  mean  ye,  what's  the  matter, 
that  you  handle  me  thus?  Ha,  ha,  — I  did  not  know 
you,  old  man.  Your  daughter's  fair  and  honest,  is 
she  not?  And  loves  her  husband  truly,  ah,  truly,  does 
she  not?  for  she  herself  told  him  so." 

"  This  pent  atmosphere  has  overcome  him,"  cried 
Mr.  Waring;  "  he's  unused  to  it."  And  he  turned 
Paul,  to  lead  him  into  the  open  air.  Paul  looked  at 
him,  as  if  to  ask  what  he  was  doing,  and  then  suffered 
himself  to  be  led  out  of  the  room.  He  took,  without 
seeming  conscious  of  it,  what  Mr.  Waring  gave  hirn; 
and  they  walked  to  an  outer  door. 

"This  night  air  is  cold,"  said  Paul,  shuddering. 

"  Cold!  "  asked  the  old  gentleman,  surprised.  He 
felt  of  Paul's  hand  and  forehead;  it  was  like  touching 
the  dead. 

"You  are  ill,  quite  ill,  Mr.  Felton;  you  must  go 
home.  Let  me  find  Esther." 

"I've  found  her  out  before  you,  old  man.  —  Stay," 
said  he,  in  an  eager  whisper,  seizing  Mr.  Waring  by 
the  arm,  and  looking  close  in  his  face;  "  the  net's 
nigh  set  which  is  to  catch  that  bird;  don't  searcher." 

"  This  will  never  do;  you  must  go  with  me,  then. 
Your  state  is  worse  than  you  are  aware  of." 

"  No,  in  faith,  it  is  not,"  said  Paul  bitterly.  "  It 
was,  but  I  know  the  worst  now.  —  Let  us  to  the  room; 
the  fit 's  over,  and  I'm  well  again." 


PAUL  FELTON.  329 

"  Not  well,  I  fear,"  said  Mr.  Warring. 

"Yes,  quite  well,  mind  and  body  both,"  replied  Paul, 
drawing  himself  up;  "  and  I'm  calm,  perfectly  calm. " 
He  turned,  and  leaving  the  old  gentleman  at  the  door, 
walked  into  the  room  as  composedly  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  Those  who  had  seen  him,  supposed  that 
the  close,  hot  air  had  oppressed  his  brain,  and  thought 
nothing  more  of  the  matter.  Mr.  Waring  remem 
bered  his  mysterious  words,  and  was  alarmed;  for  he 
had  some  little  insight  into  the  structure  of  Paul 's 
mind. 

Esther,  who  had  heard  nothing  of  what  had  past, 
had  mingled  with  the  crowd  at  a  distant  part  of  the 
room;  but  Paul  soon  discovered  where  she  was;  for 
she  was  carrying  on  a  lively  conversation  with  those 
round  her.  He  drew  near  enough  to  hear  her  gay 
laugh,  and  the  bandying  of  smart  and  pleasant  sayings. 
Other  thoughts  and  feelings  filled  his  soul.  He  stood 
amid  the  light  and  rattle  like  some  black,  solid  body 
that  nothing  penetrated.  Mysterious  shapes,  which 
told  him  in  part  of  something  dreadful,  were  wander 
ing  through  his  mind  with  a  fearful,  shadow-like  still 
ness;  the  scene  directly  before  him  seemed  set  off 
at  an  infinite  distance;  and  his  lonely  soul  held  its 
own  musings,  known  to  none  of  earth. 

"Can  we  love,"  said  he  to  himself,  "and  one  be 
sad,  and  yet  no  secret  sympathy  tell  the  other  of  it? 
Were  Esther  cast  down,  though  I  saw  her  not,  the 
spirits  that  are  about  us,  and  know  what  is  in  our 
hearts,  would  whisper  it  to  me.  —  Idiot!  boy!  Talk 
I  of  love?  Is  not  her  heart  another  's?  Ere  I  knew 
her,  it  was  his.  In  mind  —  in  mind  she  's  his  now  — 
at  this  instant,  his." — He  darted  from  the  place  he 
was  in,  and  taking  his  stand  just  outside  the  circle, 


330  PAUL   FELTON. 

and  opposite  Esther,  stood  watching  her,  without 
being  seen.  Frank  was  by  her  side,  playing  with  her 
fan. —  "What,  so  constant!"  said  Paul  to  himself. 
' '  Could  neither  seas  nor  travel  cure  you !  But  I  have 
that  that  will.  Yet  ye  're  a  faithful  pair;  and  it  would 
break  two  loving  hearts.  No,  no,  I  '11  riot  be  cruel.  — 
Why  talk  I  of  you,  ye  coxcomb?  —  What  are  you  to 
me?  'Tis  she!  'tis  she!  and  I '11  see  what's  in  that 
heart,  though  I  tear  it  from  her." 

'•'  And  where  is  Mr.  Felton  to-night,  that  he  is  not 
with  us?"  asked  one. — "  O,  at  home,  no  doubt," 
answered  a  peevish  maiden.  "He  loves  no  plays,  as 
thou  dost,  Antony, "  said  she,  maliciously,  looking 
first  at  Frank  and  then  at  Esther.  Esther  could  not 
but  observe  her  very  significant  manner;  and  inno 
cent  as  her  heart  was  of  all  improper  thoughts,  she 
felt  pained  and  embarrassed.  Paul  watched  the 
changes  of  her  countenance.  "And  is  her  name 

O 

so  stale  already  ?     Do  they  tell  her  to  her  very  teeth 

that    she's  a ?"  —  There  was  a  short  pause. 

Esther  was  looking  beyond  the  circle  to  relieve  her 
self  of  the  sight  of  those  immediately  about  her,  when 
her  eyes  suddenly  met  those  of  Paul,  which  were  fixed 
on  her  with  a  deadly  look.  She  started  back  with  a 
shriek.  There  was  a  general  alarm,  and  Paul  pressed 
in  toward  her. — "What's  the  matter?  What  was 
it  ?"  cried  they  all  at  once.  "  I  know  not,"  said 
Esther,  trying  to  recover  herself  a  little.  "'Twas 
a  —  spider,  a — a  —  I  believe." 

"Ugly  things,  those,"  muttered  Paul  to  her  in  an 
under  tone,  as  he  half  supported  her,  —  "  that  lie  hid 
in  corners,  with  meshes  spread  for  silly  flies.  Beware, 
for  they  draw  the  blood,  and  leave  their  prey  hanging 
for  the  common  eye."  Esther  shuddered  at  his  words. 


PAUL    FELTON.  331 

as  she  heard  his  breath  come  hard  from  suppressed 
passion.  She  nearly  sank  to  the  floor,  confounded, 
mortified  and  afraid.  Never  had  Paul  looked  on  her 
so  before.  She  had  seen  hate,  and  revenge  and  tri 
umph  in  his  eye.  Then,  lest  those  about  her  should 
suppose  the  consciousness  of  detected,  guilty  thoughts 
had  overcome  her  —  it  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 
"I'm  ill.  O,  take  me  away,"  she  cried,  in  an 
imploring  tone.  Frank  came  eagerly  forward.  "  Not 
you,  not  you,"  she  said  impatiently,  waving  him  back, 
while  Paul  supported  her  in  his  arms,  his  eyes  resting 
on  her  pale,  sorrowful  countenance. 

"Where's  my  child?"  cried  her  father,  rushing 
forward,  as  Paul  was  bearing  her  to  their  carriage. 

"  Safe  with  her  husband,  "answered  Paul,  in  a  firm 
but  gentle  voice.  The  old  gentleman  looked  up  at 
him,  and  saw  a  tear  in  his  large,  dark  eye.  Taking 
out  his  cloak,  Paul  wrapt  it  carefully  about  Esther, 
and  placed  her  in  the  carriage. 

"  Will  you  go  with  us,  Sir  ?"  said  Paul,  respectfully. 
Mr  Waring  put  his  foot  upon  the  step. —  "  I  had 
better  not,"  thought  he,  and  drew  back.  Esther  ob 
served  her  father's  hesitation;  and  putting  out  her 
hand  to  him,  said,  with  a  forced  smile,  "  I  shall  be 
quite  well  presently.  Good  night,  Sir." 

She  sat  silent,  as  they  drove  homeward.  She  had 
not  half  surmised  the  character  of  Paul's  thoughts. 
It  was  humbling  enough  to  her,  that  her  husband 
should  have  heard  such  gross  insinuations  against  her, 
and  should  have  looked  as  if  some  impropriety  or 
trifling  in  her  conduct,  had  laid  her  open  to  the  slants 
of  the  malignant.  "He  it  is  that  was  insulted," 
thought  she;  "and  it  is  I  who  subjected  him  to  it, 
and  left  no  way  of  revenge  to  his  proud  spirit."  — 


332  PAUL    FELTON. 

She  looked  timidly  at  him.  He  was  leaning  bare 
headed  out  of  the  carriage  window.  There  was  no 
longer  any  anger  in  his  countenance,  but  it  told  of 
heart-sickening  melancholy,  and  pity  for  the  faults  of 
those  we  love.  —  "  Paul,"  she  said;  but  could  not  go 
on.  He  appeared  not  to  notice  her;  but  after  a 
while,  asked  —  still  looking  on  the  trees  playing  in 
the  breeze  and  moonshine  —  "what  were  you  about 
saying,  Esther?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,  only  that  I  fear  the  change  to 
this  damp  air  may  be  dangerous  to  you." 

"  Never  fear  that;  there  's  a  fever  here.''  said  he, 
striking  his  forehead  rapidly  with  his  fingers,  "that 
must  be  cooled  quickly,  or  3t  will  sear  the  brain  up." 

"  They  drove  on,  Paul  sitting  as  before.  —  "  Have 
ye  no  sense  of  your  glad  motions?"  said  he,  as  he 
still  looked  out  on  the  trees.  "  Can  ye  be  so  inno 
cent  and  look  so  gay,  and  yet  feel  no  joy?  Sure,  ye 
have  your  delights  unto  you,  and  the  morning  sun 
shall  take  you  in  them  fresher  than  when  he  left  you. 
Blessed  creations  of  a  kind  Father,  ye  know  not  sin 
nor  sorrow;  but  man  lies  down  and  rises  to  them 
both."  —  Esther  could  bear  this  no  longer.  —  "My 
husband,"  she  sobbed  out,  as  she  sunk  upon  his 
bosom,  "  O,  take  me  to  you,  and  bless  me  with  them; 
for  I  too  am  innocent,  though  not  as  pure  as  they 
are."  —  He  folded  her  in  his  arms  as  tenderly  as  a 
father  would  a  lost  child  returned,  and  she  felt  a  tear 
drop  on  her  forehead. 

ct  You  need  rest,  my  love,"  said  he,  kindly,  as  he 
led  her  into  the  house.  She  turned  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  There  is  no  rest  for  me,  Paul,  when  I  have  broken 
yours,  though  I  never  meant  it." 


PAUL    FELTON.  333 

"  The  whirlwind  is  gone  over.  You  see  me  calm, 
now." 

"  Calm  and  fond,  but  not  happy,  Paul.  I  never 
thought  to  live  to  grieve  you." 

"Our  griefs  are  mostly  of  our  own  creation,  Esther; 
and  so  may  mine  be.  "  I'll  call  myself  to  count  for 
them,  while  you  go  sleep.  To-morrow  all  will  be 
well.  Good  night.'' 

u  'Innocent,  though  not  as  pure  as  they  are?'   Said 

she  not  so?     As  yet  she   has  sinned  in  mind  only. 

Body  and  soul  not  both  bound  over  to  hell  yet. 
Conscience,  or  fear,  I  know  not  which,  holds  her  still. 
Did  she  not  wave  him  back,  as  if  she  dared  not  trust 
herself  ?  And  speaks  not  that  conceived  guilt  ?  And 
did  they  not  twit  her  of  it?  All  of  them  to  hear  it; 
and  I,  her  husband,  standing  by?  And  when  she 

saw  me,   O,   shaine  !  —  She  confessed   it   all,  all. 

Down,  down,  ye  thoughts,  that  rise  like  fiends  within 
me  —  tempt  me  not  —  drive  me  not  mad!"  He 
rushed  wildly  from  the  room,  as  if  pursued  by 
spectres. 

As  he  hurried  through  the  passage  to  his  study,  his 
foot  caught  in  the  rug  on  which  Abel  was  sleeping. 
He  started  back,  as  if  the  powers  of  darkness  had 
crossed  him.  "  Have  ye  snared  me  then?  Is  there 
no  way  left  me  ?  "  Abel  lay  with  his  limbs  drawn  up, 
and  the  muscles  of  his  face  distorted,  as  if  some  sharp 
pain  wrung  him.  Every  now  and  then  his  mouth 
drew  convulsively,  and  he  uttered  broken,  weak  cries, 
as  if  he  dreamed  some  one  was  tormenting  him.  As 
Paul  looked  on  his  shrunken  body  and  ghastly  face, 
it  seemed  like  the  carcass  of  a  wretch  who  had  pined 
to  death,  and  into  which  some  imp  had  entered  as  his 
place  of  sin  and  torment.  —  "Sent  to  make  me  a 


334  PAUL    FELTON. 

victim  cursed  and  abhorred  as  yourself!  I  see  it  all, 
and  yet  you  cling  to  me  !  And  I  cannot  shake  you 
off."  He  raised  his  lamp  to  get  a  more  distinct  view 
of  the  object  before  him.  The  light  flashed  upon 
Abel.  As  he  opened  his  eyes  on  Paul,  he  gave  a 
long,  shrill  cry,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands.  —  "  Not 
yet,  not  yet!  "  begged  he,  twisting  himself  round,  till 
on  his  knees.  "  One  more  day,  before  you  take  me 
with  you!  The  deed's  not  done  yet;  I  cannot  go  till 
that's,  that's  done." 

"  And  has  the  soul's  working  so  changed  my  visage 
that  he  does  not  know  me?  Ts  my  fate  fresh  writ 
with  a  mark  like  Cain's  upon  me?  —  Rouse  you! 
Whom  do  you  take  me  for  ?"  —  At  the  sound  of  Paul's 
voice,  Abel  curled  down  upon  the  floor. 

"I  thought  He  had  come  for  me,'3  cried  Abel; 
"for  They've  told  me  He  would  come;  and  yet 
it  could  not  be  now;  for  they  have  been  whis 
pering  me  all  night  long  that  I  must  do  it  before  I 
went." 

"It?  —  What?"  asked  Paul  impetuously.  "Art 
mad?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  Sir;  I  don't  know.  It  is 
something  dreadful,  that  I'm  afraid  to  do;  and  yet  it 
must  be  done.  And,  then,  then  I'm  lost." 

"And  quickly,"  said  Paul;  "for  you're  about  it, 
now,  though  you  know  it  not.  You're  here,  —  with 
in  me.  Dar'st  look  on  him  you're  blasting?  " 

"I'me  gone,  I'me  gone!"  shrieked  Abel,  clinging 
to  Paul's  feet.  "  Help  me,  save  me!  "  —  A  loath 
ing  hate  entered  Paul.  His  teeth  set,  and  his  foot 
drew  up,  as  if  he  would  have  crushed  the  boy.  Abel 's 
hold  relaxed,  and  he  lay  panting  and  exhausted. 
Paul  watched  him  till  his  breathing  became  freer.  — 


PAUL    FELTON.  335 

c<  Up,  and  follow  me.  I  '11  know  the  worst  that  waits 
me." 

Violent  passions  and  dreadful  thoughts  had  now 
obtained  so  complete  a  mastery  over  Paul,  that  they 
came  and  went  like  powers  independent  of  his  will; 
and  he  felt  himself  as  a  creature  lying  at  their  mercy'. 
He  prayed  to  them  to  spare  him,  as  if  they  had  been 
beings  that  could  enter  him,  and  move  about  him,  and 
torment  him,  as  they  would.  They  took  shadowy 
forms  and  wild  motions,  becoming  dimly  visible  to  his 
mind's  eye.-  "If  I'm  lost,"  cried  he,  as  he  left  the 
house,  "  if  ye  have  made  me  a  child  of  hell,  speak  to 
me  and  tell  me  of  it.  If  cursed  deeds  must  be  done 
of  me,  whip  me  not  blind  and  bound  to  my  work,  but 
let  me  know  it  all,  and  what  I  am,  that  I  may  put 
my  heart  into  the  act,  and  share  your  devilish  tri 
umph." 

Paul  pressed  on  so  fast,  that  Abel,  with  his  sham 
bling  gait,  could  hardly  keep  up  with  him.  The 
eastern  horizon  was  shut  in;  and  when  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  rocky  ridge,  the  moon,  which  was  just 
setting,  threw  its  light  over  the  multitude  of  its  grayish 
broken  points,  giving  to  its  whole  length  the  white 
lustre  of  the  milky-way. 

"  It  seems  the  path  of  Heaven,"  said  Paul  to  him 
self,  as  his  eye  glanced  over  it,  '-'but  it  tends  not 
thither.  The  whole  earth's  a  cheat,  and  I !  —  I'm  its 
dupe.  Yet,  I'll  be  fooled  no  longer.  — Yes;  and 
they  take  angels'  shapes.  —  She  that  looks  as  if  made 
to  be  an  inhabitant  of  the  pure,  holy  stars,  why  she  — 

she  that  looks  all  innocence  in  her  sleep, for  then 

they  feign  too  — whom  and  what  dreams  she  of  now? 
And  she'll  wake  presently,  and  talk  to  her  pillow,  and 
call  it  soothingly  by  his  name,  and  fold  it  in  her  arms 


336  PAUL    FELTON. 

as  she  does  me,  me, —  and  fancy  it  him.  —  Tell  me, 
tell  me,  ye  that  haunt  me,  is  it  not  so?  Can  ye  not 
give  me  to  look  into  her  very  soul,  and  see  its  secret 
workings,  as  ye  see  mine?"  —  Abel  trembled  from 
head  to  foot  as  he  watched  Paul's  motions,  and  heard 
his  terrific  voice,  without  understanding  what  it  was 
he  spoke  of. 

The  moon  was  down  and  the  sky  overcast  when  they 
began  to  wind  among  the  rocks.  Though  Paul's 
walks  had  lain  of  late  in  this  direction,  he  was  not 
enough  acquainted  with  the  passage  to  find  his  way 
through  it  in  the  dark.  Abel,  who  had  traversed  it 
often  in  the  night,  alone  and  in  terror,  now  took  heart 
at  having  some  one  with  him  at  such  an  hour,  and 
offered,  hesitatingly,  to  lead.  —  "The  boy  winds  round 
these  crags  with  the  speed  and  ease  of  a  stream,'' 
said  Paul.—  "  Not  so  fast,  Abel." 

"  Take  hold  of  the  root  which  shoots  out  over  your 
head,  Sir,  for  'tis  ticklish  work  getting  along  just 
here.  —  Do  you  feel  it,  Sir?  " 

"  I  have  hold,"  said  Paul. 

"  Let  yourself  gently  down  by  it,  Sir.  You  needn  't 
be  a  bit  afraid,  for  'twill  not  give  way;  man  could'nt 
have  fastened  it  stronger." 

This  was  the  first  time  Abel  had  felt  his  power,  or 
had  been  of  consequence  to  any  one,  since  the  boys 
had  turned  him  out  from  their  games;  and  it  gave  him 
a  momentary  activity,  and  an  unsettled  sort  of  spirit, 
which  he  had  never  known  since  then.  He  had  been 
shunned  and  abhorred;  and  he  believed  himself  the 
victim  of  some  Demoniac  Power.  To  have  another 
in  this  fearful  bondage  with  him,  as  Paul  had  intimated, 
was  a  relief  from  his  dreadful  solitariness  in  his  terrors 
and  sufferings.  —  "  And  he  said  that  it  was  I  who  was 


PAUL  FELTON.  337 

to  work  a  curse  on  him,"  muttered  Abel.  "  It  cannot 
be,  surely,  that  such  a  thing  as  I  am  can  harm  a  man 
like  him!  "  —  And  though  Abel  remembered  Paul's 
kindness,  and  that  this  was  to  seal  his  own  doom  too, 
yet  it  stirred  the  spirit  of  pride  within  him.  —  "  What 
are  you  muttering  to  yourself,  there,  in  the  dark," 
demanded  Paul;  "or  whom  talk  you  with,  you  with 
ered  wretch?"  —  Abel  shook  in  every  joint  at  the 
sound  of  Paul's  harsh  voice. 

"•It  is  so  dreadfully  still  here,"  said  Abel,  "  I  hear 
nothing  but  your  steps  behind  me;  and  they  make  me 
start."- -This  was  true;  for  notwithstanding  his  touch 
of  instant  pride,  his  terrors,  and  his  fear  of  Paul., 
were  as  great  as  ever. 

"Speak  louder  then,"  said  Paul,  "  or  hold  your 
peace.  I  like  not  your  muttering;  it  bodes  no  good." 

"  It  may  bring  a  curse  to  you,  worse  than  that  on 
me,  if  a  worse  can  be,"  said  Abel  to  himself;  "  but 
who  can  help  it  ?  " 

Day  broke  before  they  cleared  the  ridge;  a  drizzling 
rain  came  on;  and  the  wind,  beginning  to  rise,  drove 
through  the  crevices  in  the  rocks,  with  sharp,  whistling 
sounds  which  seemed  to  come  from  malignant  spirits 
of  the  air. 

They  had  scarcely  entered  the  wood,  when  the 
storm  became  furious;  and  the  trees,  swaying  and 
beating  with  their  branches  against  one  another, 
seemed  possessed  of  a  supernatural  madness,  and 
engaged  in  wild  conflict,  as  if  there  were  life  and 
passion  in  them;  and  their  broken,  decayed  arms 
groaned  like  things  in  torment.  The  terror  of  these 
sights  and  sounds  was  too  much  for  poor  Abel;  it 
nearly  crazed  him;  and  he  set  up  a  shriek  that  for  a 
moment  drowned  the  noise  of  the  storm.  It  startled 


338  PAUL    FELTON. 

Paul;  and  when  he  looked  at  him,  the  boy's  face  was 
of  a  ghostly  whiteness.  The  rain  had  drenched  him 
to  the  skin;  his  clothes  clung  to  his  lean  body,  that 
shook  as  if  it  would  come  apart;  his  eyes  flew  wildly, 
and  his  teeth  chattered  against  each  other.  The  fears 
and  torture  of  his  mind  gave  something  unearthly  to 
his  look,  that  made  Paul  start  back.  —  "Abel — boy  — 
fiend  —  speak  !  What  has  seized  you?  " 

"  They  told  me  so,"  cried  Abel  —  "I  've  done  it  — 
I  led  the  way  for  you —  they  're  coming,  they  're  com 
ing  —  we  're  lost !  '' 

"  Peace,  fool,"  said  Paul,  trying  to  shake  off  the 
power  he  felt  Abel  gaining  over  him,  "  and  find  us  a 
shelter  if  you  can." 

"  There 's  only  the  hut,"  said  Abel,  "  and  I  would  'nt 
go  into  that  if  it  rained  fire." 

"And  why  not?" 

"  I  once  felt  that  it  was  for  me  to  go,  and  I  went 
so  near  as  to  see  in  at  the  door.  And  I  saw  something 
in  the  hut  —  it  was  not  a  man,  for  it  flitted  by  the 
opening  just  like  a  shadow;  and  I  heard  two  muttering 
something  to  one  another;  it  wasn  't  like  other  sounds, 
for  as  soon  as  I  heard  it,  it  made  me  stop  my  ears.  I 
couldn't  stay  any  longer,  and  I  ran  till  I  cleared  the 
wood.  —  O!  'tis  His  biding  place,  when  He  comes  to 
the  wood." 

"And  is  it  of  His  own  building?"  asked  Paul, 
sarcastically. 

"  No,"  answered  Abel;  "'twas  built  by  the  two 
wood-cutters;  and  one  of  them  came  to  a  bloody  end; 
and  they  say  the  other  died  the  same  night,  foaming 
at  the  mouth  like  one  possessed.  —  There  it  is,"  said  he, 
almost  breathless,  as  he  crouched  down,  and  pointed 
at  the  hut  under  the  trees.  —  "  Do  not  go>  Sir,"  he 


PAUL   FELTON.  339 

said,  catching  hold  of  the  skirts  of  Paul's  coat, —  "  I've 
never  dared  go  nigher  since." — "Let  loose,  boy," 
cried  Paul,  striking  Abel's  hand  from  his  coat,  "I'll 
not  be  fooled  with."  —  Abel,  alarmed  at  being  left 
alone,  crawled  after  Paul,  as  far  as  he  dared  go; 
then  taking  hold  of  him  once  more,  made  a  supplicating 
motion  to  him  to  stop;  he  was  afraid  to  speak.  Paul 
pushed  on  without  regarding  him. 

The  hut  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  sand-bank  that  was 
kept  up  by  a  large  pine,  whose  roots  and  fibres,  lying 
partly  bare,  looked  like  some  giant  spider  that  had 
half  buried  himself  in  the  sand.  On  the  right  of  the 
hut  was  a  patch  of  broken  ground,  in  which  was  still 
standing  a  few  straggling,  dried  stalks  of  indian  corn; 
and  from  two  dead  trees  hung  knotted  pieces  of  broken 
line,  which  had  formerly  served  for  a  clothes-line. 
The  hut  was  built  of  half-trimmed  trunks  of  trees  laid 
on  each  other,  crossing  at  the  four  corners,  and 
running  out  at  unequal  lengths,  the  chinks  partly  filled 
in  with  sods  and  moss.  The  door,  which  lay  on  the 
floor,  was  of  twisted  boughs;  and  the  roof,  of  the 
same,  was  caved  in,  and  but  partly  kept  out  the  sun 
and  rain. 

As  Paul  drew  near  the  entrance,  he  stopped, 
though  the  wind  just  then  came  in  a  heavy  gust,  and 
the  rain  fell  like  a  flood.  It  was  not  a  dread  of  what 
he  might  see  within;  but  it  seemed  to  him,  that  there 
was  a  spell  round  him,  drawing  him  nearer  and  nearer 
to  its  centre;  and  he  felt  the  hand  of  some  invisible 
power  upon  him.  As  he  stepped  into  the  hut,  a  chill 
ran  over  him,  and  his  eyes  shut  involuntarily.  Abel 
watched  him  eagerly;  and  as  he  saw  him  enter, 
tossed  his  arms  wildly,  shouting,  "  Gone,  gone! 
They'll  have  me,  too  — they're  coming,  they're 


340  PAUL    FELTOX. 

coming !  "  —  and  threw  himself  on  his  face,  to  the 
ground. 

Driven  from  home  by  his  maddening  passions,  a 
perverse  delight  in  self-torture  had  taken  possession  of 
Paul;  and  his  mind  so  hungered  for  more  intense 
excitement,  that  it  craved  to  prove  true  all  which  its 
jealousy  and  superstition  had  imaged.  He  had  walked 
on,  lost  in  this  fearful  riot,  but  with  no  particular 
object  in  view,  and  taking  only  a  kind  of  crazed  joy 
in  his  bewildered  state.  Esther's  love  for  him,  which 
he  at  times  thought,  past  doubt,  feigned,  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  and  then  the  driving  storm,  with  its 
confused  motions  and  sounds,  made  an  uproar  of  the 
mind  which  drove  out  all  settled  purpose  or  thought. 
The  stillness  of  the  place  into  which  he  had  now 
entered,  where  was  heard  nothing  but  the  slow, 
regular  dripping  of  the  rain  from  the  broken  roof, 
upon  the  hard  trod  floor;  the  lowered  and  distant 
sound  of  the  storm  without;  the  sudden  change  from 
the  whirl  and  swaying  of  the  trees,  to  the  steady 
walls  of  the  building,  put  a  sudden  stop  to  the 
violent  working  of  his  brain,  and  he  gradually  fell  into 
a  stupor. 

When  Abel  began  to  recover,  he  could  scarcely 
raise  himself  from  the  ground.  He  looked  round, 
but  could  see  nothing  of  Paul. —  "  They  have  bound 
us  together,"  said  he;  "and  something  is  drawing  me 
toward  him.  There  is  no  help  for  me;  I  must  go 
whither  he  goes."  —  As  he  was  drawn  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  hut,  he  seemed  to  struggle  and  hang 
back,  as  if  pushed  on  against  his  will.  At  last  he 
reached  the  door-way;  and  clinging  to  its  side,  with  a 
desperate  hold,  as  if  not  to  be  forced  in,  put  his 
head  forward  a  little,  casting  a  hasty  glance  into  the 


PAUL    FELTON*  341 

building. —  "  There  he  is,  and  alive!  "  breathed  out 
Abel. 

Paul's  stupor  was  now  beginning  to  leave  him;  his 
recollection  was  returning;  and  what  had  passed 
came  back  slowly  and  at  intervals.  There  was 
something  he  had  said  to  Esther  before  leaving  home — 
he  could  not  tell  what;  then  his  gazing  after  her  as 
she  drove  from  the  house;  then  something  of  Abel; 
and  he  sprang  from  the  ground  as  if  he  felt  the  boy's 
touch  again  about  his  knees;  then  the  ball-room,  and 
a  multitude  of  voices,  and  all  talking  of  his  wife. 
Suddenly  she  appeared  darting  by  him;  and  Frank 
was  there.  Then  came  his  agony  and  tortures  again: 
All  returned  upon  him  as  in  the  confusion  of  some 
horrible  trance.  Then  the  hut  seemed  to  enlarge, 
and  the  walls  to  rock;  and  shadows  of  those  he  knew, 
and  of  terrible  beings  he  had  never  seen  before,  were 
flitting  round  him,  and  mocking  at  him.  His  own 
substantial  form  seemed  to  him  undergoing  a  change, 
and  taking  the  shape  and  substance  of  the  accursed 
ones  at  which  he  looked.  As  he  felt  the  change  going 
on,  he  tried  to  utter  a  cry,  but  he  could  not  make  a 
sound,  nor  move  a  limb.  The  ground  under  him 
rocked  and  pitched;  it  grew  darker  and  darker,  till 
everything  was  visionary;  and  he  thought  himself 
surrounded  by  spirits,  and  in  the  mansions  of  the 
damned.  Something  like  a  deep,  black  cloud  began 
to  gather  gradually  round  him.  The  gigantic  struc 
ture,  with  its  tall,  terrific  arches,  turned  slowly  into 
darkness,  and  the  spirits  within  disappeared,  one  after 
another,  till,  as  the  ends  of  the  cloud  met  and  closed, 
he  saw  the  last  of  them  looking  at  him,  with  an  infernal 
laugh  in  his  undefined  visage. 

Abel  continued  watching  him  in  speechless  agony. 


342  PAUL    FELT ON. 

Paul's  consciousness  was  now  leaving  him;  his  head 
began  to  swim  —  he  reeled;  and  as  his  hand  swept 
down  the  side  of  the  hut,  while  trying  to  save 
himself,  it  struck  against  a  rusty  knife  that  had  been 
left  sticking  loosely  between  the  logs. — "Let  go, 
let  go!"  shrieked  Abel;  "there's  blood  on't — 'tis 
cursed,  'tis  cursed."  —  As  Paul  swung  round,  with 
the  knife  in  his  hand,  Abel  sprang  from  the  door  with 
a  shrill  cry,  and  Paul  sank  on  the  floor,  muttering  to 
himself,  "  What  said  They?" 

When  he  began  to  come  to  himself  a  little,  he  was 
still  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  back  against  the  wall. 
His  senses  were  yet  confused.  He  thought  he  saw  his 
wife  near  him  and  a  bloody  knife  by  his  side.  After 
sitting  a  little  longer,  his  mind  gradually  grew  clearer, 
and  at  last  he  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  his  hand  held 
something.  As  his  eye  fell  on  it,  and  he  saw  dis 
tinctly  what  it  was,  he  leaped  upright,  with  a  savage 
yell,  and  dashed  the  knife  from  hirn,  as  if  it  had  been 
an  asp  stinging  him.  He  stood  with  his  bloodshot 
eyes  fastened  on  it,  his  hands  spread,  and  his  body 
shrunk  up  with  horror.  —  "Forged  in  Hell!  And 
forme,  for  me!"  he  screamed,  as  he  sprang  forward, 
and  seized  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  —  "Damned 
pledge  of  the  league  that  binds  us!"  he  cried,  holding 
it  up  and  glaring  wildly  on  it.  "And  yet  a  voice  did 
warn  me,  — of  what,  I  know  not.  —  Which  of  ye  put 
it  in  this  hand?  —  Speak  —  let  me  look  on  you?  — 
D'ye  hear  me,  and  will  not  answer?  —  Nay,  nay, 
what  needs  it  ?  This  tells  me,  though  it  speaks  not.  I 
know  your  promptings  now,"  he  said,  folding  his  arms 
deliberately;  "your  work  must  be  done;  and  I  am 
doomed  to  it." 

There  was  an  awful  calmness  in  his  voice  and  bear 
ing  as  he  stood.  His  mind  at  last  rolled  back  upon 


PAUL    FELTON.  343 

the  past.  As  the  thought  of  Esther's  love  for  Frank 
crossed  him,  he  clutched  the  knife  hard.  — Then  he 
heard  her  call  out,  "Paul!"  And  she  looked  all 
truth  and  fondness.  —  "O!  hang  with  your  arms 
about  my  neck  thus,  Esther,  and  I  '11  never  again 
doubt  you.  —  Stand  off  a  little.  Is  not  my  eye  mur 
derous?  —  Have  a  care;  touch  not  this  bloody  hand. 
—  Come  to  me,  my  wife;  I'll  not  believe  it;  'tis  false; 
they  lie,  all  lie,  all!  O,  spare  me,  spare  me!"  he 
groaned  out,  throwing  himself  down  and  beating  the 
ground  madly  with  his  arms.  "  Let  her  die,  if  ye  've 
ordained  it  so,  but  not  by  me,  not  by  me!  "  —  His 
limbs  gradually  relaxed,  and  he  lay  silent.  The  fit  of 
agony  had  passed.  He  rose  slowly  up,  putting  the 
knife  into  his  bosom.  "  'T  is  all  in  vain.  I  yield  me 
to  you;  be  it  when  you  will." 

He  quitted  the  hut.  The  storm  had  passed  over; 
and  as  he  stood  with  folded  arms  before  the  door-way, 
he  saw  the  sun  playing  in  chequered  spots  under  the 
trees;  and  the  myriads  of  silver  rain-drops,  falling,  or 
quivering  on  the  leaves,  dazzled  his  sight.  —  "  'T  was 
your  accursed  power  that  raised  the  storm  and  whirl 
wind,  when  you  made  a  man  a  child  of  hell;  your 
work  is  done,  and  now  they're  laid  again."  —  He 
turned  his  melancholy  eye  upward.  The  clouds  lay 
like  snow-drifts  along  the  air,  setting  off  and  deepen 
ing  the  clear  blue  sky.  —  "Ye  bright  messengers 
from  another  world,  ye  bring  not  glad  tidings  to  me 
now,  as  once  ye  did;  your  holy  influences  no  more 
fall  on  me.  Ye  pass  me  by  in  silence;  yet  once  ye 
had  a  voice  for  me.  Ye  go  to  tell  of  hope  and 
speak  holy  promises  to  the  pure  in  heart.  Sin  holds 
no  communion  with  you.  Once,  all  this  beauty  had 
been  deep  joy  to  me;  but  now,  it  lies  upon  the  eye, 


344  PAUL    FELTON. 

but  enters  not  this  bosom.  —  No,  no,  another  sense  is 
here  now,  and  other  sights.  Tormenting  flames,  like 
those  I  'm  soon  to  go  to,  shoot  up,  and  burn  me  — 
burn  me.  And  this  narrow  body  seems  a  dark,  deep 
cavern.  And  the  eye  turns  inward,  and  what  sees  it 
there?  Spirits,  uncouth  things,  sporting  and  fighting 
there.  —  Yes,  't  is  like  the  place  ye  just  now  took 
me  to,  when  ye  made  me  yours,  and  put  upon  me 
this  deed  of  horror.  — Let  me  do  it  quickly,  quickly. 
Make  me  not  walk  longer  in  all  this  brightness,  a 
fiend  of  darkness.  Hide  me  from  it,  and  I  '11,  I  '11 
come  to  you." 

He  soon  grew  calm  again.  The  look  of  despair 
passed  off,  and  a  mysterious  gloom  and  fixed  and 
dreadful  purpose  seemed  to  settle  on  him.  He  walked 
forward.  As  he  drew  near  Abel,  who  was  sitting 
where  Paul  left  him,  the  boy  quaked  and  looked 
aghast  at  him,  as  at  one  who  had  just  risen  out  of  the 
abode  of  evil  spirits.  And  well  he  might,  for  there 
was  a  visionary  horror,  mingled  with  desperate  reso 
luteness,  in  his  face,  which  would  have  startled  a  firm 
man,  who  saw  him  then  for  the  first  time.  He 
turned  his  dark  eye  slowly  down  on  Abel,  without 
speaking,  and  then  moved  on.  The  boy  felt  as  if  all 
strength  went  out  of  him.  He  got  up  with  difficulty, 
and  followed  Paul  with  a  watchful  look,  and  at  a 
greater  distance  than  usual.  He  could  scarcely  draw 
his  breath ;  and  when  Paul's  pace  slackened  a  little, 
now  and  then,  as  he  was  lost  in  thought,  Abel  would 
stop,  fearing  to  be  any  near«r. 

When  they  at  length  reached  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
Paul  stopped,  and  looked  down  upon  the  fields  and 
houses  which  lay  beyond  it.  Abel  retreated  a  little; 
yet  he  dared  not  fly.  At  length  Paul  turned  on  him. 


PAUL    FELTON.  345 

He  shrunk  back,  and  tried  to  look  another  way;  but 
his  eye  seemed  drawn  back  and  fastened  upon  Paul's. 
He  writhed,  and  twisted,  and  clasped  his  hands,  and 
looked  in  Paul's  face,  as  if  imploring  to  be  spared. 
Still  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  as  if  a  snake's  eye 
charmed  him,  till  he  stood  close  to  Paul's  side.  — 
"  Think  you,  Abel,"  said  Paul  at  last,  raising  his 
arm  and  pointing  toward  the  houses,  "  that  the  storm 
drove  thither,  or  that  it  was  up  in  that  cursed  place, 
back  yonder,  alone?  "  —  To  hear  Paul  speak  once 
more  was  like  returning  life  to  Abel.  —  "  I  'm  afraid," 
said  he,  "I  'm  afraid,  but  I  can  't  guess;  —  and  I  shall 
never  know,"  he  added,  tears  trickling  through  his 
lashes;  "for  not  a  soul  that  I  should  ask  would  ever 
tell  me:  —  No  one  speaks  to  Abel  but  you.  May  be 
they  had  better  not,  for  I  might  be  made  to  harm  them, 
too.  —  O,  save  me  from  it,"  he  cried,  falling  on  his 
knees  before  Paul.  "  You  fed  me,  and  spoke  to  me. 
O,  I  would  die  sooner." 

"'Tis  done  already,"  answered  Paul.  "Your 
work  is  done,  and  mine  is  doomed  to  me.  There  's 
no  escape."  Abel  fell,  like  one  dead,  at  Paul's 
feet.  —  "Poor  wretch,"  said  Paul,  looking  down 
upon  him.  "  The  instrument  of  my  doom  too.  And 
yet  I  would  not  curse  you.  Twinned  with  me  in 
misery,  and  bound  to  crime  by  chains  that  can't  be 
broken,  I  '11  feel  a  fellow 's  kindness  for  you  while 
we  're  here.  —  What 's  to  come  beyond,  I  know  not.  — 
And  is  it  us  alone  you  take  in  our  vices?  Or  are 
babes  and  innocents  all,  all  swept  into  your  toils,  ye 
powers?" 

He  stooped  down,  and  raising  Abel,  set  him  with 
his  back  against  a  rock.  The  boy  opened  his  eyes 
and  looked  round  him,  as  if  not  knowing  where  he 
was.  Paul  spoke  kindly  to  him;  and  when  he  had  a 


346  PAUL    FELTON. 

little  more  recovered,  bade  him  take  comfort,  and 
then  went  back  to  get  some  water  for  him.  He 
reached  the  place;  and  tearing  some  hairy  moss  from 
the  rock  the  water  trickled  over,  soaked  it  in  one  of 
the  little  hollows,  and  carried  it  in  the  palms  of  his 
hands.  When  Abel  saw  it,  he  gave  an  hysteric 
laugh;  and  seizing  it,  sucked  it  greedily  through  his 
long  teeth. 

"  Can  you  walk  now,  Abel?  "  asked  Paul  at  length. 

"I'm  quite  well  again,"  answered  he,  looking  up 
at  Paul,  as  if  to  thank  him. 

When  they  had  reached  the  clump  of  locusts,  Paul 
said  to  him,  "  You  must  leave  me  now.  You  must  be 
faint  for  want  of  food;  "  and  he  gave  Abel  a  piece  of 
money.  Abel  looked  at  the  money,  and  then  at 
Paul.  —  "And  what  good  will  this  do  me?  "  asked 
Abel.  "  Nobody  will  sell  to  me." 

"Not  sell  to  you,  foolish  boy!  Why,  that  buys 
souls  daily!  Men  and  women  sell  themselves  to  one 
another  for  that,  and  swear  before  God  't  is  all  for 
love.  Did  you  go  to  them,  child,  tailed  and  clawed 
like  the  Devil  himself,  they  'd  feed  you  for  that,  though 
'twould  be  your  last  hour  else."-  — Abel  seemed  com 
forted  at  this;  and  putting  the  money  into  his  pocket, 
as  he  thanked  Paul,  took  his  way  to  the  village. 
Paul  followed  the  path  that  led  home. 

When  he  turned  a  little  wood,  and  the  house  ap 
peared  in  sight,  he  stopped  suddenly.  A  sense  of 
guilt  and  fear  checked  him;  and  it  was  some  time 
before  he  had  resolution  enough  to  go  forward. — 
"What!  shall  I  be  driven  from  my  own  door  like  a 
beast  of  prey!  They  know  me  not,  nor  the  work  I 
am  ordained  to.  Why  does  my  very  own  make  me 
tremble  thus  ? " 


PAUL    FELTON.  347 

It  was  a  warm  sunshiny  noon  when  he  reached  the 
house,  and  there  was  that  stillness  round,  which,  in 
the  country,  sometimes  pervades  all  nature  like  a  dif 
fused,  spiritual  presence.  Paul  felt  as  if  this  bright 
ness  and  quiet  betrayed  him.  Every  thing  he  passed 
by  seemed  to  have  a  knowledge  of  him,  and  strange 
eyes  were  on  him:  He  hardly  dared  look  round.  He 
cast  his  eyes  up  at  his  wife's  window.  The  shutters 
were  closed,  —  "Sleeps  yet!"  said  he.  "That  is 
well !  "  and  he  entered  the  house  with  more  compo 
sure. 

He  went  with  a  cautious  step  to  his  own  room,  and 
locked  himself  in.  As  he  passed  near  his  glass,  he 
started  back.  —  "Have  they  not  only  changed  my 
soul,"  cried  he,  "but  transformed  this  body,  too, 
that  the  world  may  know  and  shun  me?  Is  the  deed 
writ  here  —  here  on  this  forehead,  that  men  may  read 
it  when  they  look  on  me?  —  I'll  not  live  on,  the 
dread  and  rnock  of  mortals.  Now  I  '11  do  it,  now, 
while  she  sleeps,  and  end  it.  —  Then  take  me  to  you, 
fit  for  the  hell  I  go  to." — His  eyes  gleamed  fire  as 
he  clinched  the  knife  in  his  raised  hand,  as  if  about 
to  give  the  blow.  At  the  sight  of  himself  again,  he 
dropped  the  knife  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 
"  Take,  take  that  vision  from  me,  that  tells  me  what 
I  am,  and  shall  be!  O,  show  me  not  myself,  cursed 
and  fallen!  I  '11  do  it;  but  blind  me  to  the  sense  of 
what  I  am  and  must  be."  He  had  undergone  too 
much  to  bear  it  longer,  and  sinking  into  a  chair,  his 
limbs  relaxed,  his  eyes  grew  heavy,  and  he  fell  into 
a  deep  sleep. 

Esther  waked  refreshed;  for  Paul's  affectionate 
tones  and  kind  manner  when  she  left  him  quieted  her 
spirit.  When  she  inquired  for  her  husband,  the  ser- 


348  PAUL    FELTON. 

vant  said  he  saw  him  enter  the  house,  and  believed 
he  was  in  his  room.  Esther  went  to  the  door  and 
knocked  gently;  there  was  no  answer.  She  tried  to 
open  it,  but  it  was  locked.  She  called  out,  "  Paul!"  — 
"Is  the  hour  come?"  cried  he,  starting  out  of  his 
sleep.  —  "  I  'm  ready  then;  "  and  putting  his  hand  to 
his  bosom,  the  knife  was  gone.  —  u  Where  have  I 
been?  "  said  he  to  himself,  looking  round,  —  "  Was't 
all  a  dream?  Was  there  then  no  instrument  of  mur 
der  given  me  ?  And  is  there  no  deed  of  death  on  my 
hands?  —  She's  not  to  die  then,  and  I  am  free  of 
them!"  cried  he  with  a  shout. 

"  Paul!  Paul !  "  called  out  Esther,  terrified  at  the 
sound,  "  let  me  come  to  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  and  you  may  come  safely  now.  I'll 
not  harm  you;  upon  my  life,  I'll  not  harm  you,"  he 
said  partly  to  himself,  and  moving  towards  the  door. 
As  he  advanced,  his  eye  fell  on  the  knife,  as  it  lay  on 
the  floor.  His  blood  ran  cold,  and  a  sick  feeling 
came  over  him.  Then  sight  and  sense  left  him. 
Esther  listened;  but  all  was  still.  —  "He's  dead, 
he's  dead!"  shrieked  she,  trying  to  force  the  door. 
The  noise  brought  him  to  himself.  —  "Hush!  hush!" 
he  whispered,  as  he  picked  up  the  knife  with  a  shak 
ing  hand,  and  concealed  it  in  his  bosom,  "let  there 
be  no  noise."  —  He  stepped  slowly  and  softly  to  the 
door,  and  opened  it  cautiously.  He  raised  his  finger 
in  sign  of  silence.  — "  Hush!  or  you  '11  rouse  Them. 
Do  not  tremble  so  at  me.  There  is  no  danger  yet; 
the  hour  is  not  come." 

Esther  entered  the  room.  As  Paul  took  her  hand, 
she  felt  his  cold  and  damp.  "  Paul,  my  husband, 
what  is  it?  Why  do  you  look  so  wild  and  lost? 
Rouse  yourself;  tell  me  what  has  happened." 


PAUL    FELTON.  349 

"Happened?"  repeated  he,  unconsciously.  He 
stood  a  little  while  silent  and  abstracted.  "  Did  you 
ask  what  had  happened?  "  —  Then  putting  his  mouth 
close  to  her  ear,  and  whispering  eagerly —  "  To  hear 
it  would  be  your  last.  What  ?s  seen  in  the  spirit, 
cannot  be  spoken  to  flesh  and  blood."-— She  shud 
dered,  for  there  was  something  unearthly  in  his  voice. 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  cried  she,  looking  upward, 
"  save  him,  save  him;  let  him  not  go  mad!  Do  with 
me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  my  husband ! "  —  Her  prayer 
passed  through  Paul's  dark  and  troubled  mind  like 
the  light. 

"  Is  there  yet  a  Heavenly  Power?  And  are  there 
holy  angels  to  guard  us  still?  The  fiends  have  not 
all  then,  and  their  domain  fills  not  the  whole  air  !  No, 
't  is  not  all  dark;  there's  light  beyond.  See  there, 
Esther,"  said  he,  seizing  her  arm,  as  he  pointed 
eagerly  upward;  there  are  bright  forms,  dazzling 
bright,  moving  in  it.  Canst  see  them?  "  He  looked 
as  if  more  than  mortal  vision  was  given  to  him.  The 
sense  of  all  about  him  was  gone,  and  he  went  on 
talking  to  himself,  as  he  gazed.  "There  they  are, 
passing  away,  till  swallowed  up  in  the  very  bright 
ness  !  Now  they  come  again,  hosts,  myriads,  and 
with  the  speed  of  fire!  —  The  darkness,  and  the  evil 
ones,  too,  are  flying  —  they  are  gone!  Now  the  light 
gushes!  'Tis  all,  all  one  flood  of  glory  round  me! 
I  'm  safe,  I  'm  safe,  Esther  !  "  he  gasped  out,  as  he 
fell  on  her  neck. 

"•  O,my  wretched,  lost  husband  !  "  she  cried,  as  she 
folded  her  arms  round  him,  and  looked  upward  with 
streaming  eyes;  " Is  there  no  help  for  you?  Will  not 
Heaven  have  pity  on  you?"  Paul  remained  silent 
and  motionless.  "  O,  speak  to  me,  be  it  but  one 


350  PAUL    FELTON. 

word,"  said  she,  raising  him  gently.  "  Look  at  me, 
will  you  not,  Paul?"  He  did  look,  but  it  was  as 
upon  one  he  did  not  know.  —  "Why  do  you  glare 
upon  me  so?  Do  you  not  know  me,  Paul?  —  Esther, 
• — your  wife?" 

"  I  think — I  remember  something  —  Yes,  'tis  all 
clear  now.  But  They  have  not  betrayed  me  to  you? 
They've  not  told  you  what 's  to  be  done?  Believe 
them  not,  they  belie  me.  Did  I  not  just  now  tell  you 
I  was  safe?  —  and,  then,  no  harm  can  come  to  you, 
you  know." 

"  Harm !  Safe  !  What  mean  you?  Do  not  keep 
me  in  this  ignorance.  By  the  love  you  bear  me,  tell 
me  what  it  is  that  shakes  your  reason  so." 

"  That  must  not  be  now.  I  serve  the  powers  of 
the  air.  When  you  're  a  spirit  in  Heaven,  and  I  in 
darkness,  you  '11  know  all.  —  There  !  They  flit,  like 
shadows,  in  the  light,  and  keep  the  sun  from  me;  yet 
you  are  in  it.  That  tokens  what  is  to  be." 

He  paused.  His  wildness  left  him,  and  he  seem 
ed  to  be  musing.  At  last  he  spoke.  —  "  The  hour  is 
coming,  Esther— it  breathes  upon  me  now,  when 
death  will  part  us,  and  we  shall  never  meet  more 
through  all  eternity.  Thy  immortal  countenance  will 
then  be  radiant  with  holy  joy;  but  I  shall  no  more 
look  on  it;  and  thy  voice  of  love  will  no  more  sound 
for  me.  — Weep  not  for  me;  it  can  avail  me  nothing; 
the  doom  is  on  me.  —  Nay,  nay,  ask  me  not  what  I 
mean.  The  book  in  which  my  fate  is  written,  is  sealed 
to  you;  you  may  not  read  it.  —  I  must  be  alone 
awhile,"  said  he,  opening  the  door.  "  Do  not  linger 
so.  The  time  is  coming  when  you  would  fain  flee 
from  me,  and  may  not.  No  more  tears,  Esther,"  he 
said,  taking  her  hands  in  his,  as  she  looked  up  silently 


PAUL    FELTON.  351 

in  his  face.  "  What  is  this  world's  misery  to  those 
who  hope  for  rest  beyond  it?"  He  pressed  his  lips 
to  her  forehead,  and,  turning  back,  shut  the  door  after 
her. 

When  Abel  came  to  the  village  street  he  walked 
through  it  with  more  confidence  than  he  had  done  for 
many  a  day;  for  he  remembered  Paul's  last  words  to 
him,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  that  in  his  pocket  which 
would  find  him  friends  again.  When  he  reached  the 
shop-door,  where  he  intended  buying  something  to 
eat,  it  was  near  noon,  and  the  little  room  was  filled 
with  the  wise-ones  who  had  come  together  to  take 
their  dram,  and  settle  church  and  state.  He  stopped 
at  the  door  and  looked  anxiously  in,  beginning  to  feel 
for  his  money;  for  he  no  more  expected  to  gain  ad 
mittance  without  it  here,  than  one  does  at  a  show. 
He  stepped  upon  the  door-stone,  and  began  playing 
his  change  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  looking  first 
at  it  and  then  at  the  shopkeeper. 

"Where  got  you  those  white-boys,  you  starveling?" 
asked  the  man.  "  Come  in,  and  let  me  take  a  peep 
at  them.  Is  't  honest  money?  " 

"  I  came  honestly  by  it,"  said  Abel,  trembling,  and 
venturing  a  little  within  the  door. 

"  That 's  no  concern  of  mine,"  said  the  man.  "And 
many  a  glass  of  liquor  I  should  miss  the  selling  of, 
gentlemen,  if  none  but  fair  gains  bought  it." 

"Who  have  you  here? "  said  one,  setting  down  his 
mug,  which  had  just  touched  his  lips,  and  moving  off, 
as  Abel  sidled  up  to  the  counter.  —  "  Why,  't  is  the 
curst  boy!  You  '11  not  take  his  money,  Sam!  " 

"  Will  I  not?  "  replied  Sam.  "  Hand  over  the  bit, 
and  tell  us  what  you  want.  I  hold  man  or  boy,  who 
has  money  in  his  purse,  to  be  every  inch  a  gentle- 


352  PAUL    FELTON. 

man."  —  Sam's  customers  began  to  draw  back.  As 
some  were  going  out  at  the  door  he  called  after  them. — 
"  Stay,"  said  he,  throwing  the  piece  on  the  counter, 
"  and  hear  it  ring.  There  's  music  for  you,  my  lads, 
sweeter  than  a  church  bell'." 

"  Don  't  take  it,  Sam,"  said  the  customer.  "He  's 
sent;  and  it  will  fare  ill  with  you  if  you  have  dealings 
with  him." 

"Not  take  it!  Why,  Mr.  Stitchcloth,  you  would 
rig  him  up  out  of  your  cabbagings,  fit  to  be  the  Old 
One's  harlequin,  for  another  such  piece  as  this," 
said  Sam,  letting  it  drop  through  the  hole  in  the 
counter,  into  the  drawer.  — "  There,  didn't  you  hear 
them  welcome  him,  the  bright  lads!  What  care  I 
whose  coining  it  is?  The  Devil  may  have  his  mint, 
if  he  chooses,  and  at  little  cost  too.  Who,  think  ye, 
but  he,  set  the  wheels  of  that  coach  a-going,  that  is 
passing  there  ?  Did  not  she  within  it,  looking  so  fair 
and  smiling,  sell  herself  to  one  as  old  as  Satan,  though 
to  my  mind,  not  so  handsome  or  proper  a  gentleman. — 
'Tis  the  way  of  the  world,  and  I'll  not  be  singular! 
Bread,  did  you  ask  for,  my  pretty  youth?  There  it  is," 
said  he,  with  a  cast  of  his  eye  at  the  baker.  "  But 
have  a  care  that  it  does  n't  poison  you,  for  the  Devil 
is  the  father  of  cheats,  and  his  child  had  the  making 
on  't."  —  Abel  looked  pleased  as  he  took  it.  "  There's 
a  sweet  smile!  Call  again,  my  lad,  but  at  another 
hour;  for  these  gentlemen  have  no  great  liking  to  you, 
and  you  may  stop  the  running  of  my  tap." 

"  I  '11  never  take  change  of  you  again,"  said  the 
tailor,  as  he  left  the  shop,  "  till  that  drawer  is  empty; 
for  I  would  as  soon  handle  iron  at  white-heat  as  touch 
that  piece."  —  Sam  laughed  heartily,  and  called  out 
to  Abel,  as  he  crawled  from  the  shop,  "  Give  my  com- 


PAUL  FELTON.  353 

pliments  to  your  master,  boy,  and  tell  him,  that  I 
should  be  happy  to  supply  him,  or  any  of  his  likely 
family." — Abel  bent  his  way  toward  the  house  of 
his  protector,  and  took  a  seat  under  the  hedge,  wait 
ing  his  corning. 

When  Paul  was  once  more  alone,  his  last  mourn 
ful  words  to  Esther  still  sounded  in  his  ears.  Her 
prayer  for  him  (of  which  he  heard  something,  as  in  a 
dream)  as  she  folded  her  protecting  arms  round  him, 
the  home  and  shelter  he  felt  her  to  be  to  him,  when 
he  fell  on  her  neck  and  cried  out  that  he  was  safe; 
the  expression  of  woe,  and  pity,  and  love  with  which 
she  looked  up  in  his  face  at  leaving  him,  came 
all  at  once  to  his  mind  with  a  clear  and  calming  in 
fluence.  He  felt  the  spring  of  blood  once  more  at 
his  heart;  and  his  old  affections  flowed  through  him 
again  with  a  living  warmth.  The  passions  that  had 
raged  in  him  like  fire,  went  suddenly  out;  the  horrors 
that  had  whirled  round  him  and  crazed  his  brain, 
passed  off;  he  felt  again  the  earth  firm  under  him, 
and  saw  that  he  stood  in  the  cheerful  light  which  fell 
like  a  blessing  upon  all  things  that  lay  in  the  beautiful 
and  assured  tranquillity  of  nature.  It  was  like  com 
ing  out  of  one  of  those  terrific  dreams,  in  which  we 
have  passed  through  multitudes  of  horrid  sights  and 
dangers,  and  finding  it  bright  morning,  and  all  as  safe 
and  quiet  as  it  was  yesterday.  The  mere  returning 
of  the  simple  sense  of  reality  brought  tears  of  joy  and 
thankfulness  to  his  eyes.  — -  "  Am  I  again  amongst 
the  abodes  of  men?  and  standing  amidst  the  works 
of  God?  Are  light,  and  truth,  and  beauty  once  more 
round  me  ?  And  were  all  the  horrors  I  have  passed 
through,  a  conjuration  and  a  lie,  raised  to  damn  me? 
Come,  and  assure  me  of  it,  Esther;  for  though  thou 
23 


354  PAUL    FELTON. 

walkest  with  me  here,  thou  seemest  to  me  kindred 
with  higher  beings.  O,  I  have  gazed  upon  thee,  till 
thy  rapt  looks  and  beautiful  motions  have  made  me 
think  thee  an  imbodied  spirit,  revealing  to  me  the 
creations  that  fill  the  world  beyond  us  —  a  fair  and 
passing  vision,  returning  to  the  world,  which,  for  a 
while,  thpu  earnest  from.  —  Let  me  go  to  thee,"  said 
he,  rushing  from  his  room,  "  and  have  thine  eye  rest 
on  mine;  and  hear  thy  clear  voice,  and  listen  while 
you  tell  me  you  will  not  yet  go  from  me." 

Esther  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  her  full  dark  hair  hang 
ing  over  her  face,  and  snow-white  arm  on  which  her 
forehead  rested.  —  "My  wife,"  said  Paul,  as  he 
kneeled  down  by  her,  "  have  I  lived  only  to  afflict 
you  ?  I  could  throw  away  my  life,  and  count  it  noth 
ing,  to  bring  you  peace.  I  should  have  been  the 
soother  of  all  your  sorrows,  and  brought  you  your 
little  daily  joys.  And  is  it  I  who  have  broken  your 
heart,  and  made  life  comfortless  to  you?  " 

Esther  sobbed  audibly.  —  "No  answer  for  me, 
Esther?  Then  it  is  so.  Why  do  I  ask?  And  yet  a 
vain  wish  is  struggling  within  me  that  you  might  say 
something  to  quiet  a  self-accusing  mind.  My  will  is 
not  in  my  act;  but  when  I  wound  your  heart,  mine 
bleeds  doubly." 

"I  do  believe  it,  Paul,"  said  she,  raising  herself, 
and  resting  on  him.  "  I  have  not  lost  your  love  yet; 
but  dear  as  it  has  ever  been  to  me,  it  is  of  small 
worth  without  your  confidence.  It  cannot  content  me 
unless  I  feel,  as  it  were,  our  hearts'  blood  mingling 
and  flowing  on  warm  together.  To  be  loved  as  I 
would  be,  we  must  have  one  life,  one  being;  our  sor 
rows  must  no  more  part  us  than  our  joys.  But  you 
have  troubles  of  the  mind,  and  shut  me  out,  like  a 


PAUL    FELTON.  355 

stranger,  from  them;  and  dreadful  thoughts  o'er- 
master  you,  and  fatal  purposes,  to  which  you  seem 
driven;  and  vain  surmises  and  dark  givings-out  are 
all  I  know  of  them.  Is  this  love,  Paul?  Is  it  all  your 
heart  asks  for?  And  can  it  be  in  your  noble  nature, 
to  give  only  the  poor  remnant  of  your  mind  and  heart 
to  her  whose  whole  soul  would  alone  content  you  ?  — 
Yet  this  is  nothing,"  she  cried,  hiding  her  face. 
"  Those  eyes  which  had  ever  but  one  look  for  me, 
last  night  were  turned  in  anger,  and  with  a  searching 
sternness,  on  me.  —  Last  night  was  it?  Fears  and 
grief  have  made  it  seem  an  age  since!  This  I  did 
not  deserve,  Paul,  however  too  poor  a  thing  I  may 
be  for  a  mind  of  a  reach  like  yours,  to  rest  on." 

"  Your  words  go  like  swords  through  me.  .Do  not 
break  down  this  overburdened  spirit  with  your  just 
complainings,  Esther.  I  would  not  be  what  I  am. 
Think  you  it  is  in  my  disposition  to  torture  and  afflict 
you  as  I  have  done?  —  Look  up,  my  love,  and  tell 
me  if  I  am  not  changed.  There  is  an  inward  peace 
here,  which  I  never  felt  till  now.  1  've  been  out  of 
the  world  —  out  of  myself ;  and  this  naked  soul  has 
driven  through  fire  and  whirlwinds;  but  it  has  come 
back  to  its  place  of  rest,  to  its  quiet  trust  in  thee,  and 
the  repose  of  thy  full  love.  Could  I  look  on  this  face 
and  —  let  me  not  name  it.  Is  not  this  eye  open  as 
the  day?  And  do  1  not  read  truth  written  on  this 
brow?  When  I  first  saw  you,  Esther,  you  seemed 
made  up  of  sensations  more  exquisite  than  other 
mortals  knew  how  to  think  of,  as  if  of  a  nature  be 
tween  us  and  angels,  and  moulded  to  live  a  perpetual 
self-delight.  And  when  you  touched  a  flower  or  took 
its  perfume,  I  thought  of  the  light  and  breeze  which 
shone  with  its  beauty  and  was  filled  with  its  odour. 


356  PAUL   FELTON. 

You  seemed  to  me  too  joyous  and  pure  ever  to  have 
felt  our  passions  or  known  our  sins.  And  when  I 
have  sat  by  you,  as  I  do  now,  with  the  soft  touch  of 
your  hand  in  mine,  and  your  eyes  resting  fondly  on 
mine,  I  have  felt  as  if  undergoing  a  gentle  change, 
and  becoming  a  nature  like  unto  yours;  it  was  to  me 
such  as  I  have  thought  would,  be  the  intercourse  of 
mortals,  when  these  bodies  become  incorruptible  and 
glorified  in  another  world.  —  Why  should  I  try  to  tell 
what  I  now  feel?  It  is  a  vain  thing.  Let  me  be  still, 
while  my  senses  are  drinking  in  delight." 

Esther  hung  over  him,  and  tears  of  joy  filled  her 
eyes.  One  fell  on  Paul's  forehead.  She  wiped  it 
gently  away,  and  then  touched  her  lips  where  it  fell. 

"  Take  them  not  away  yet,  Esther,"  he  murmured; 
"they  are  the  seal  of  pardon  for  my  wrongs  to  you, 
the  pledge  of  your  enduring  love  for  me,  the  promise 
of  unchanging  joy  through  life,  a  joy  that  is  to  purify 
me,  and  fit  me  to  live  on  with  you  for  ever."  —  His 
voice  faultered,  and  she  saw  a  tear  trickle  from  under 
his  closed  lids. 

"  O,  I  could  have  lived  ages  of  misery,  for  an  hour 
like  this,  Paul,  were  life  to  end  when  that  hour  had 
run  out;  but  I  feel  that  years  are  in  store  for  us, 
blissful  as  our  souls  can  bear." 

"  I  hardly  dared  look  up,"  said  he,  "till  I  heard 
your  voice,  lest,  waking,  I  should  find  it  a  heavenly 
trance  I  had  been  rapt  in.  Come,  let  me  rouse  myself 
and  make  sure  that  all  is  real,"  he  said,  putting  his 
arm  round  her,  as  he  rose  and  walked  with  her  to  the 
window. 

"  How  fresh  and  new  all  things  look;  or  rather^ 
how  like  it  is  to  our  return  to  old  and  remembered 
places,  where  nature  still  looks  young  and  healthful, 


PAUL    FELTON.  357 

though  we  are  growing  old.  But  ive  are  not  growing 
old,  Esther,  for  life  is  again  beginning  in  us.  Is  it  a 
new  creation,  or  are  other  senses  given  me  with  which 
to  see  and  feel  it  ?  The  boughs  swing  up,  and  the  leaves 
play  as  cheerfully  as  if  a  breeze,  for  which  they  had 
drooped  and  waited,  had  just  blown  on  them,  and  the 
declining  sun  lights  up  all  things  gloriously.  What  a 
glow  it  sends  over  that  hedge,"  said  he,  as  his  eye 
passed  along  it. —  "Hide  me!  He's  come  again! 
he  follows  me!"  cried  Paul,  turning  terror-struck 
from  the  window.  Esther  looked  at  him.  His  face 
was  wild  and  ghastly,  and  he  tottered  as  he  threw 
himself  on  her  shoulder  for  support. 

lt  Speak,    speak,    Paul, — who  —  what   is   it  — 
where?" 

cc  There  !  there!  do  you  not  see  him?"  he  uttered 
in  a  hard-breathed  whisper,  and  pointing  back  with 
his  finger,  without  daring  to  look  round. 

"  That  boy?"  asked  Esther,  trembling;  "  I  've  seen 
him  before.  Who,  and  what  is  he,  that  looks  so  like 
a  tormented  thing  thrown  out  upon  the  earth  to  pain 
and  mischief  ?  " 

"  Speak  not  of  him  —  power  is  given  him.  I  feel 
him  on  rne  now,"  he  screeched,  as  he  sprang  with 
an  enormous  leap  from  her.  —  "  Off!  off!  "  he  cried, 
struggling  as  if  to  loose  himself  from  some  strong 
grasp.  — "  They  call  me,  —  thousands  of  voices  in  my 
ears!  Hear  them,  hear  them,  Esther!  —  I  come!  I 
come!"  he  yelled  out,  darting  from  the  room,  his 
hair  on  end,  his  spread  hands  and  arms  stretched  out 
before  him.  —  Esther  tried  to  call  to  him,  as  she  ran 
toward  him.  Her  lips  moved,  but  there  was  no 
sound:  she  fell  to  the  floor. 

The  shouts  and  cry  alarmed  the   servants,   who 


358  PAUL    FELTON. 

rushed  into  the  room.  They  raised  Esther,  and  laid 
her  on  the  sofa.  She  gasped  once  or  twice;  her  eyes 
opened,  then  closed  again.  At  last  the  colour  came 
to  her  cheek,  and  starting  up  and  staring  round  her: 
—  "  My  husband !  Where  is  he  ?  Fly,  seek  him  !  " 

cc  Which  way  is  he  gone,  madam?  " 

<e  I  know  not.  Bring  him;  on  your  lives,  bring  him 
to  me !  "  She  rose  and  hurried  towards  the  outer 
door. 

"  Stay,  dear  madam,"  said  her  waiting  woman. 
"  Whither  are  you  going  at  this  hour?  " 

"  Going  to  my  husband,  if  he  is  on  the  earth  —  or 
to  my'grave." 

"  Do  not  leave  the  house  bareheaded,  madam." 

"  Well,  well,  bring  me  something,  quickly."  The 
woman  returned,  and  was  about  following  Esther.  — 
"  Stay  here,"  said  she;  "  he  may  return  while  I  am 
gone,  and  miss  me  —  I  can  go  alone,"  she  murmured, 
as  she  left  the  door.  "  When  Paul  leaves  me,  what 
has  the  earth  for  me  to  fear  or  care  for  ?  "  —  She  took 
her  way  to  a  large,  intricate  wood,  which  lay  off  at  a 
distance  from  the  house,  and  bordering  upon  part  of 
the  rocky  ridge. 

Soon  after  Esther  left  the  house,  Frank  called  to 
see  her.  The  woman  told  all  she  knew.  —  "  Gone 
out,  and  alone,  and  in  such  a  state  of  mind!  Which 
way?  "  —  "  Toward  the  wood  you  see  yonder,  Sir." 
Frank  left  the  house  in  pursuit  of  her.  He  was 
alarmed  for  her,  for  he  feared  Paul,  though  he  knew 
not  why.  He  entered  the  wood,  and  wandered  through 
it  a  long  time  without  seeing  her.  The  light  was 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  he  became  more 
uneasy.  At  last  he  found  her,  leaning  against  a  tree, 
pale  and  still.  He  went  up  to  her,  and  spoke  kindly. 


PAUL    FELTON.  359 

She  seemed  not  to  regard  what  he  said,  but  asked, 
"Is  he  no  where  to  be  found?"  —  "Search  is 
making,"  replied  Frank.  "  Let  me  help  you  home, 
for  you  are  exhausted;  and  you  can  be  of  no  service 
here."  —  She  put  her  arm  within  his  and  walked  on 
slowly,  trembling  from  weakness  and  fear.  Her 
tears  fell  fast;  for  Frank's  friendly  and  gentle 
manner  to  her,  in  her  desolate  sorrow,  touched  her 
heart. 

When  Paul  left  the  house,  his  mind  was  so  hurried 
and  confused  from  the  sudden  shock  and  change  he 
had  undergone,  that  he  missed  the  passage  across  the 
ridge,  and  continued  wandering  along  over  and 
between  the  broken  clefts,  till  at  last  he  came  upon 
the  wood  to  which  Esther  had  gone.  He  was  pushing 
swiftly  through  it,  when  he  caught  sight  of  Frank  and 
Esther  at  a  distance.  He  sprang  forward,  once,  with 
the  leap  of  a  tiger,  then  stood  still.  Every  passion 
within  him  seemed  suddenly  struck  dead,  and  the 
mind  appeared  collecting  itself  for  something  fatal; 
all  was  gloomy  and  hushed.  When  he  followed  them, 
it  was  slowly  and  with  a  cautious  step,  as  if  he  feared 
his  tread  would  be  heard.  He  kept  at  a  distance, 
without  losing  sight  of  them,  till  they  left  the  wood; 
then  stood  concealed  at  the  edge  of  it,  watching  them 
as  they  went  toward  the  house. 

Esther's  strength  gradually  returned;  and  she  no 
longer  needed  the  support  of  Frank's  arm.  As  Paul 
saw  her  draw  her  arm  from  Frank's,  "  Tis  a  pity," 
he  said,  in  bitter  scorn,  "  the  wood  could  not  have 
gone  with  you,  that  the  world  might  not  interrupt  your 
loves."  He  did  not  follow  them,  but  continued 
pacing  to  and  fro.  Sometimes  a  muttering  sound 
came  from  him ;  and  then  again  a  vehement  gesture 


360  PAUL    FELTON. 

showed  starts  of  passion.  At  length  he  seemed  to 
wake  again  to  a  clearer  sense  of  the  past,  and  his  step 
quickened.  "  Yes,"  he  cried,  "she  did  cross  me  — 
I  saw  her.  She  passed  like  an  angel  before  me  — 
and  then !  then  she  vanished.  Why  am  I  fooled  with 
this  show  of  innocence  and  beauty?  The  fiends 
have  all!  —  The  universe  is  a  hell;  and  all  else  is  to 
mock  and  torture  us  with  longings.  What!  flesh  and 
blood,  and  look  so  pure,  when  the  pulse  beats  high,  — 
hot!  hot!  And  seem  as  ignorant  as  infancy,  as  if  the 
rebel  body  told  them  nothing.  Well  may  the  spirits 
laugh  at  our  self-cheating  !  And  me,  too,  dark  and 
ungainly  as  I  am  —  gloomy — silent!  —  O,  't  was  a 
pretty  fancy,  to  have  a  fantastic  passion  to  fondle  my 
ugliness  for  a  while,  then  turn  to  the  other,  and 
clasp  him  in  heightened  beauty  !  —  Ease  me,  ease 
me  of  this  torture!"  he  cried,  darting  from  the 
wood. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  turned  homeward. 
He  stopped  under  an  elm  near  the  house,  without  any 
settled  purpose.  Esther's  father  had  been  sent  for, 
but  was  absent;  and  Frank,  unwilling  to  leave  the 
house,  remained  till  late.  The  clock  in  the  village  at 
last  struck  twelve,  the  moon  was  down,  and  one  black 
cloud  over  the  sky.  At  last  the  door  opened,  and  as 
Frank  came  out,  Paul  saw  him  by  the  light  in  the 
entry.  He  came  so  close  to  the  tree,  that  Paul  drew 
up  straight,  as  he  passed;  but  so  dark  was  it,  that  he 
only  seemedlike  a  blacker  shadowy  substance  going  by. 
"  Now  might  I  do  it,"  thought  Paul;  "  but  he  is  not 
my  victim;  some  other,  doomed  like  me,  must  do  that 
deed."  When  the  sound  of  Frank's  tread  at  length 
died  away,  Paul  went  to  the  door,  and  tried  cautiously 
to  open  it.  It  was  fastened.  —  "  Shall  I  knock  ?  No, 


PAUL    FELTON.  361 

5t  is  better  so.  —  I  have  it.  I  '11  prove  her;  I  '11  know 
her  false  ere  I  do  it. — To  the  hut,  —  to  the  hut! 
I'  11  watch  her  nightly.  And  Abel,  he  who  serves 
me,  and  whom  my  soul  serves,  him  I  will  use 
too." 

"  It  may  not  be,"  he  muttered,  as  he  groped  his 
way  along,  "  that  the  last  sin 's  committed.  And  shall 
I  kill  her  for  her  thoughts?  Who  then  would  live  the 
day  out,  if  evil  thoughts  were  death  to  us?  Do  they 
not  mingle,  like  blaspheming  spirits,  with  our  adoring 
moments?  And  shall  we  creatures  of  corruption  ask 
of  our  fellows,  love  constant  and  untainted?  But  to 
feign  it  so!  To  weep  over  me  in  excess  of  joy  and 
fondness!  —  so  she  protested.  And  I  with  a  simple 
faith  believed  it,  did  I  ?  Women's  tears  !  Why,  they 
are  very  proverbs.  —  The  wood  !  the  wood  !  Puts 
her  arm  in  his,  does  she?  —  and  leans  on  him,  too,  in 
heart-sick  languishment !  Would,  and  yet  dares  not; 
loves  the  sin  to  very  madness,  and  sighs,  l  O,  that  it 
were  no  sin  ! '  —  Away,  away ;  let  me  not  look  on 't ! 
'T  is  all  a  lie,  a  phantasm  raised  by  the  powers  of  hell 
to  make  my  soul  theirs.  —  What!  innocent,  and  died 
by  my  hand?  Hear  them  —  how  they  mock  and 
laugh  at  me  !  I  '11  know  more  —  all !  " 

He  made  his  way  forward  as  well  as  he  could,  but 
the  darkness  and  stillness  oppressed  him.  It  was  as 
if  all  life  in  the  universe  was  at  an  end ;  nothing  but 
death  everywhere,  and  like  a  power.  He  was 
climbing  a  rock,  when  a  cold,  lean  hand  suddenly 
pressed  against  his  face,  and  a  shriek  went  up  that 
made  the  whole  atmosphere  one  shrill  sound;  it 
pierced  his  very  body.  He  could  not  speak,  nor 
move  a  limb.  "  You  child  of  hell,"  he  called  out,  at 
last,  "  who  set  you  on  to  this  ?  Speak,  where  are  you  ? 
Will  you  not  answer?  " 


362  PAUL    FELTON. 

Abel,  believing  that  he  had  touched  one  of  those 
beings  who  continually  haunted  him,  had  in  his  terror 
fallen  from  the  rock.  —  "  Was  it  not  one  of  them?  " 
he  cried,  in  a  feeble  voice.  "Is  it  you,  my  master? 
Do  come  and  help  me.  I  'm  bruised,  dreadfully  bruised. 
I  meant  no  harm." 

"  And  what  brought  you  here  at  this  hour,  so  dark 
a  night?  "  asked  Paul,  getting  down  by  him. 

"I  was  after  you,  Sir." 

"  And  why  do  you  hunt  me  thus?  Is  it  to  make 
me  like  yourself,  a  child  of  the  damned?  Why  were 
you  under  the  hedge  to-day?  O  !  that  was  a  moment 
of  more  than  earthly  joy  to  me,  and  your  blasted  form 
crossed  me,  and  flung  me  out  from  heaven!  " 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me  so,"  said  Abel.  "  I  do  what 
I  must  do:  and  they  will  never  let  me  leave  you  any 
more." 

"  Well !  well !  but  what  made  you  look  so  soon  for 
me  here  again?  " 

"  I  heard  you  cry  out,  and  saw  you  run  from  the 
house;  and  then  your  wife  fell,  I  thought,  as  she  was 
passing  the  window;  and  then  I  remembered  what  you 
told  me,  and  what  They  are  always  telling  me  about 
something  to  be  done.  And  it  was  put  into  my  mind 
that  that  was  it;  and  somehow,  I  can  't  tell  how,  that 
I  had  made  you  kill  her."  —  Paul  shuddered.  —  "I 
would  have  run  after  you ;  but  I  was  afraid  they  would 
see  me  and  catch  me ;  so  I  crawled  through  the  hedge, 
and  went  away  round  the  house;  and  when  I  got  there 
I  could  see  nothing  of  you.  And  I  looked  all  along 
this  passage  and  over  the  wood.  At  last,  Sir,  I  went 
to  the  very  hut,  and  looked  in, —  I  did,  truly,  Sir, 
though  something  glimmered  over  my  eyes  so,  I  could 
hardly  see.  I  could  n't  find  you  anywhere;  so  I 


PAUL    FELTON.  363 

thought  I  would  go  back  to  the  house  and  wait  till 
night."  —  There  was  nothing  more  said.  Abel  soon 
fell  asleep,  while  Paul  sat  musing  till  daybreak. 

The  clouds  now  began  to  break  up  and  move  off 
like  an  army  of  giants;  and  the  sun  soon  appeared, 
flinging  his  light  across  them,  and  throwing  over  them 
gorgeous  apparel  of  purple  and  gold,  making  them 
fit  attendants  on  such  a  king.  —  "Rouse  you  and 
follow  me,"  said  Paul,  shaking  Abel  by  the  arm. 

As  he  drew  near  the  hut,  the  vision  he  had  seen 
there,  the  world  of  terrors  that  had  been  opened  to 
him  in  trance,  and  the  instrument  then  put  into  his 
hand,  and  for  a  purpose  of  which  he  could  not  doubt, 
came  to  his  mind  like  a  fatal  certainty  from  which 
there  was  no  turning  away.  He  did  not  recoil  in 
horror;  there  was  no  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  the 
deed,  no  agony  of  prayer  for  escape.  It  acted  like 
long  dungeon  darkness  upon  him.  A  sullen  stillness 
spread  over  his  mind,  dulling  his  senses,  and  filling 
the  soul  with  one  dark,  sleepy  thought,  dreamlike 
and  dim.  He  entered  the  hut  slowly,  and  stood  in 
the  middle  of  it.  No  muttering  sound  came  from 
him,  nor  did  he  move  a  limb;  his  eyes  rolled  like  a 
blind  man's,  seeing  nothing,  and  searching  for  light. 
Abel,  who  had  ventured  as  far  as  the  door,  stood 
aghast  and  breathless,  gazing  on  him;  looking  for  the 
moment  that  he  would  sink  into  the  ground,  or  be 
swept  off  in  sheets  of  fire.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  be 
fore  there  was  any  motion  in  him.  At  last  his  head 
sunk  on  his  chest,  his  eyes  were  cast  down,  and  Abel 
heard  him  breathe,  once,  long  and  heavy.  He  came 
toward  the  door  with  a  slow,  wandering  step.  Abel 
shrunk  from  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  dead  man  put  in 
motion.  He  went  to  the  edge  of  the  bank,  and  sat 


364  PAUL    FELTON. 

down  upon  the  roots  of  the  pine,  his  feet  resting  on 
the  sand.  Abel  still  kept  his  eye  upon  him  in  awful 
suspense.  There  was  a  slender  stone  lying  amongst 
the  roots.  Paul's  eye  fell  on  it,  and  became  fixed. 
By  and  by  he  put  out  his  hand  and  took  it  up.  He 
continued  a  long  while  turning  it  over,  and  feeling 
it,  and  looking  at  it  on  all  sides.  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  bosom,  then  drew  it  back,  giving  a  nod,  as 
if  saying,  all  was  as  it  should  be.  "  Come  hither, 
Abel,"  he  said.  Abel  went,  as  if  drawn  to  him. 
"  Here's  more  money  for  thy  day's  meal,"  he  said, 
taking  some  from  his  pocket.  Abel  put  out  his  hand, 
but  jerked  it  back  as  Paul's  came  near  it;  and  the 
money  fell  on  the  sand.  He  stooped  and  picked  it 
up.  Paul  took  no  notice  of  his  fears.  —  "  Go,  next, 
to  my  house;  find  out  all  you  can,  and  bring  me  word. 
Think  not  to  betray  me,"  he  continued,  without  look 
ing  up.  "  I  am  with  you  wherever  you  go."  —  Abel 
seemed  to  wither  at  the  words.  Paul's  eye  was  fixed 
on  him  in  side  glance,  till  out  of  sight.  Then  look 
ing  cautiously  round,  he  drew  the  knife  slowly  from 
his  bosom.  It  was  pointed.  He  felt  of  it.  The  point 
was  dull.  He  drew  it  once  across  the  stone.  The 
sound  curdled  his  blood.  He  went  on  with  his  work. 
The  sun  flashed  upon  him  from  the  sand;  there  was 
no  breeze  among  the  branches,  nor  anything  stirring 
for  miles  round.  No  sound  reached  his  ear,  but  the 
hot,  singing  noise  of  the  insects  under  the  tree,  and 
the  whetting  of  the  knife.  Blazing  noon  came,  and 
Paul  still  went  on  with  his  work,  stopping  only  to  feel 
the  point  of  the  knife,  examine  its  handle,  and  scrape 
off  the  rust  about  it.  The  sun  was  at  last  about  set 
ting;  no  cloud  near  it.  It  was  glowing;  and  its  rim 
clearly  marked.  He  looked  on  it  wistfully,  as  if  pray- 


PAUL    FELTON.  365 

ing  in  mind  to  it,  not  to  forsake  him.  It  half  disap 
peared,  then  shot  suddenly  and  silently  down.  His 
eyes  shut;  his  face  for  a  moment  was  tremulous  and 
mournful,  but  he  did  not  sigh.  When  he  looked  up 
again,  there  were  no  bright  tree-tops,  no  holy  vesper 
of  birds;  it  was  all  sad,  still  twilight.  Presently  a 
light  night-breeze  passed  over  the  pines,  which  gave 
out  a  low,  mourning  sound.  It  struck  on  his  ear  like 
the  notes  of  spirits  wailing  the  newly  departed.  He 
started  up,  and  looked  into  the  shadowy  wood,  as  if  he 
saw  there  the  passing  pall.  He  waved  his  hand  once 
or  twice  before  his  eyes,  to  scatter  the  vision;  then 
turning  round  again,  and  placing  the  stone  back  among 
the  roots,  and  putting  the  knife  in  his  bosom,  went 
and  seated  himself  before  the  hut. 

Abel  returned  at  night,  but  with  little  news.  The 
servants,  he  said,  were  continually  going  out  and  in, 
but  they  would  not  look  at  him,  nor  answer  him  when 
he  spoke  to  them. 

u  Did  you  see  none  besides  the  servants?  " 
"  Only  young  Mr.  Frank  Ridgley.     He  went  into 
the  house  about  noon;  but  I  saw  nothing  more  of  him." 
"  I  will  know  where  he  is  to  be  seen,  then,"  mut 
tered  Paul,  rising. 

He  passed  on  through  the  wood  and  the  rocky  pas 
sage,  then  took  his  way  to  the  house.  All  was  quiet. 
He  walked  round  it,  but  saw  nothing.  It  was  to  him 
like  a  place  he  was  shut  from  for  ever,  the  only  blessed 
spot  in  a  world  where  all  else  was  cursed.  He  stood 
looking  on  it,  with  longing  and  home-sickness.  By 
and  by  alight  appeared  in  his  wife's  chamber.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  it  as  to  a  loved  star.  Presently 
Esther  passed  near  the  window.  At  the  sight  of  net 
he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  He  could  bear  it 


366  PAUL    FELTON. 

no  longer;  but  rushing  from  the  house,  hurried  back 
to  the  hut. 

The  next  morning  Abel  was  sent  again;  and  the 
day  was  wearing  away  with  Paul,  like  the  former, 
scarcely  conscious  what  he  was  doing,  or  what  was 
the  purpose  of  his  mind.  Abel  returned  a  little  past 
noon,  telling  him  that  he  saw  his  wife,  with  Frank, 
going  toward  the  wood  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge, 
about  an  hour  before.  Paul  sprang  up,  and  ran  for 
ward,  Abel  following  him.  He  went  over  every 
mound  and  through  every  valley.  Frank,  however, 
had,  in  the  meantime,  returned  with  Esther  from 
searching  after  her  husband;  (her  father  having  be 
fore  taken  another  route,)  and  recollecting  the  Devil's 
Haunt,  as  it  was  called,  set  off  alone  for  it  immedi 
ately.  After  much  clambering  and  toil  he  reached  it, 
traversed  the  ground,  and  examined  the  hut;  but  no 
trace  appeared  of  Paul.  He  returned  late,  tired  and 
disappointed. 

The  sight  of  the  wood,  and  what  he  had  witnessed 
there,  excited  Paul's  mind,  so  that  he  continued  like 
a  dog  in  full  chase  through  it  till  near  midnight,  without 
considering  how  idle  was  his  search  at  that  hour.  At 
last  he  became  exhausted;  his  torpor  returned,  and  he 
went  back  to  his  hiding-place,  like  one  walking  in  his 
sleep. 

About  dusk,  the  following  day,  Abel  returned  with 
the  information  that  Esther  's  father  was  to  set  off  the 
next  morning  on  a  journey  of  a  few  days.  —  "  Then," 
thought  Paul,  "will  be  my  time  to  make  all  sure. 
No  husband,  no  father  by,  still  rooms,  and  moonlight. 
Will  these  not  put  toys  into  the  brain,  and  make  the 
heart  beat?" 

"  You  must  see  him  start,"  he  said  to  Abel,  "  and 
mark  who  goes  with  him." 


PAUL  FELTON.  367 

Abel  was  in  full  time  to  see  Mr.  leasing  enter  his 
carnage.  He  had  set  off  to  acquamtYjEMJl's  father 
with  what  had  happened,  and  to  consult  with  him 
what  course  to  pursue.  He  would  have  gone  sooner, 
had  he  not  been  afraid  to  leave  Esther,  whom  he  staid 
with  to  soothe  and  comfort;  for  her  mind  was  nearly 
unsettled.  Frank  promised,  at  his  going,  that  no 
pains  should  be  spared  to  discover  Paul,  and  that  he 
would  be  as  a  brother  to  Esther.  The  old  gentleman 
left  home  with  a  sorrowful,  misgiving  heart;  and 
Abel  hastened  to  make  known  his  departure,  which 
took  place  about  noon. 

Paul  sat  asjie  had  done  each  day  before,  in  the  same 
spot,  passing  the  knife  slowly  over  the  stone,  then 
stopping  and  feeling  of  it,  and  looking  it  over.  His 
expression,  though  dark,  was  dull  and  abstracted, 
and  his  motions  heavy,  slow  and  uncertain.  The 
blood  moved  sluggishly,  and  life  seemed  scarcely 
going  on  in  him.  When  Abel  came  up,  Paul  did  not, 
as  usual,  conceal  the  knife.  Abel  knew  it  instantly, 
though  now  bright  and  sharpened.  All  his  horrors 
rushed  upon  him;  his  knees  knocked  against  each 
other,  his  hands  struck  against  his  thighs,  and  he  fell 
on  the  sand,  at  Paul's  feet  —  "  The  knife  !"  he  cried; 
"  hide  it!  hide  it!  There  's  murder!  —  the  deed  's  doing, 
now,  now!  Save  me!  take  me  out  o'  this  blood  !" 
Paul  leaped  upon  the  bank,  and  stood  looking  down 
on  Abel,  in  stupid  horror.  He  seemed  to  him  struggling 
in  a  red,  clotted  sea,  which  presently  appeared  sink 
ing  into  the  ground,  leaving  drops  here  and  there 
rolling  on  the  sand,  till  at  last  he  saw  nothing  more  of 
them. 

Abel  recovered  slowly;  and  raising  himself  on  his 
knees,  looked  imploringly  in  Paul's  face.  He  saw 
nothing  there  but  an  unchanging,  sullen  gloom. 


368  PAUL    FELTON. 

cc  And  what  do  you  bring  me?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  I  saw  him  leave  the  house  in  his  carriage  this 


"Alone?" 
"Yes,  Sir,  alone." 


"  To-night  it  must  be  done  then.  Do  you  not  hear 
them  telling  me,  Abel?" 

"Send  me  not  again!"  cried  Abel.  "  O,  spare 
me!" 

"Is  it  not  fated,  boy?  Think  you  the  bonds  of 
hell,  that  now  hold  you,  can  be  broken?  Look  in.  Is 
not  He  there,  busy  at  your  heart?  Your  work  is 
doing — mine  's  to  come,  quickly." 

"We  're  lost,  then  !"  cried  Abel,  springing  up.  "  Let 
me  go  with  you." 

Paul  continued  wandering  through  the  wood;  Abel 
following  close  after  him,  wherever  he  turned.  They 
went  on  in  silence ;  Paul  now  and  then  sending  a 
glance  back  on  Abel,  as  if  he  were  some  evil  thing 
dogging  him  at  his  heels. 

He  at  last  bent  his  way  to  the  passage  over  the 
ridge;  and  when  he  had  passed  it,  stopped  suddenly, 
turning  his  eye  on  Abel.  Abel  came  up.  Paul 
pointed  towards  the  house.  —  "  Bring  me  word  quick 
ly."  He  then  sat  down  upon  a  rock,  gazing, 
like  an  outcast,  upon  the  distant  chimney-tops  of  his 
own  home,  while  Abel  crawled  away  to  his  appointed 
task.  Before  long,  Abel  returned,  saying  he  had 
been  round  the  house,  but  saw  nothing,  till  at  last,  as 
he  was  coming  away,  Mr.  Ridgley  passed  him,  and 
went  in.  A  flush  crossed  Paul's  cheek,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

Frank,  according  to  his  promise  to  her  father,  went 
to  see  Esther.  She  was  walking  the  room,  when  he 


PAUL    FELTON.  369 

entered,  her  arms  folded,  her  long,  dark  hair  fallen 
round  her  pale  face  and  sunken  eye.  She  looked  up  at 
him,  as  asking  if  there  were  any  good  thing  to  tell 
her.  Frank  understood  it.  "  Nothing  as  yet,"  he 
said;  "but  I  hope — "  She  shook  her  head  despond- 
ingly,  as  she  turned  away  and  walked  to  the  window. 
"Do  not  despair  so,"  said  he,  going  toward  her; 
"  all  may  be  right  again  in  a  few  days."  —  She  drew 
up,  as  she  turned  round  upon  him.  Her  look  had 
something  of  reproach  in  it,  as  if  it  were  not  in  his 
nature  to  know  what  she  felt,  and  that  he  was  thinking 
to  cheat  a  common  sorrow.  —  He  shrunk  back,  and 
moved  toward  the  door.  She  followed  hastily  after 
him,  and  touched  his  arm.  "  Nay,  nay,  go  not  from 
me  so;  trouble  has  made  me  strange.  My  more  than 
brother,"  said  she,  giving  him  her  pallid  hand,  "if 
you  never  see  me  again,  do  not  remember  that  I  ever 
looked  in  imkindness  on  you.  Or  if  I  ever  spoke 
lightly  when  you  were  earnest,  forget  it,  will  you?  — 
It  seems  to  me,  I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  and 
passing  her  hand  over  her  brow,  as  if  trying  to  recall 
her  thoughts,  —  "I  think  I  once  made  light  of  what 
you  said  to  rne. — Well,  well,  there  's  no  more  trifling  in 
this  world.  —  Yes,  others  may,  but  I  may  not.  —  All's 
dark  here ;  —  go  where  't  is  brighter! "  He  looked  at 
her  earnestly.  He  saw  the  hurried  state  of  mind 
pass  of,  and  her  calm  sorrow  returning.  He  bade 
her  a  kind  good  night,  saying  he  would  see  her  again 
in  the  morning.  —  "  Perhaps  so,"  said  she  to  herself, 
as  he  left  the  house. 

She  stood  at  the  door  looking  upward  at  the  stars,  and 

then  upon  the  fair,  silent  moon,  whose  light  fell  like 

sleep  upon  the  earth.   "  So  I  stood,"  said  she    "  and  so 

the  moon  shone  on  us,  when  he  first  told  me  that  he 

24 


370  PAUL   FELTON. 

loved  me.  —  And  there  —  there  he  comes ! "  she  cried, 
as  her  eye  caught  the  figure  of  a  man  descending  a 
hill  on  the  road.  He  sunk  gradually  down,  till  lost 
behind  the  hedge.  At  last  she  heard  his  step,  as  he 
drew  near  the  house.  "  Paul!"  she  called  out,  in  an 
eager,  shrill  voice.  There  was  no  answer  but  that 
of  the  sharp  taunting  echoes  which  rang  off  among  the 
rocks.  "  He  's  dead,  he  's  dead,  and  they  mock  me 
with  it!"  She  listened  with  a  beating  heart.  The 
man  passed  by,  and  the  sound  of  his  steady  tread 
died  slowly  away  along  the  road.  She  walked  back 
into  the  parlour;  and  lying  down  on  the  sofa,  her 
sufferings  and  present  state  wandered  like  a  dream 
through  her  mind. 

Mr.  Waring  began  his  journey;  but  the  farther  he 
went  from  home,  the  more  troubled  he  became.  A 
misgiving,  which  he  could  not  control,  took  possession 
of  him;  and  he  at  last  ordered  his  servant  to  drive 
back.  As  soon  as  he  reached  home,  he  set  off  for 
his  daughter's  house. 

Paul  had  remained  seated  on  the  rock.  Abel  was 
a  little  below  him,  looking  wistfully  and  eagerly  at 
him,  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  each  look  and  motion 
of  Paul's.  For  a  long  time,  there  was  no  more  move 
ment  or  change  of  expression,  than  if  he  had  been  a 
statue  cut  out  of  the  rock  he  sat  on.  But  as  the  time 
drew  near,  the  heavy,  settled  gloom  broke  slowly  up, 
.and  troubled  and  fearful  thoughts  began  to  stir  them 
selves  in  his  mind.  Abel  saw  sudden  tremblings  pass 
over  his  frame,  and  a  twitching  of  the  muscles  of  the 
face.  As  the  huge,  mysterious  shadows  of  evening 
gathered  round  him,  he  looked  hastily  about,  and 
there  were  sudden  flashings  of  the  eye.  He  muttered 
something,  as  if  the  shadows  had  been  spirits  come  to 


PAUL    FELTON.  371 

watch  and  warn  him  to  his  work.  Abel  looked  on 
with  clasped  hands,  as  if  praying  it  might  not  be,  till 
he  became  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly  keep  his  seat. 
"  They  are  on  him  now!  "  cried  Abel  to  himself.  "  O, 
how  they  torture  him!  And  they  are  coming  —  I  feel 
them  coming  —  they  are  seizing  me!"  —  A  cold 
sweat  ran  over  his  body. 

The  twilight  died  away.  For  a  while  Paul  became 
motionless  again,  and  lost  in  thought;  till  leaping 
suddenly  to  the  ground,  with  his  eye  eagerly  fixed, 
grasping  the  knife  and  crying  out,  "  On!  on  !  I  '11  fol 
low  you!  "  he  rushed  swiftly  forward. — "  Stay  !  stay!  " 
shrieked  Abel,  darting  after  him,  and  seizing  upon 
the  skirts  of  his  coat.  Paul  ran  on,  till  he  dragged 
Abel  to  the  earth,  and  his  hold  loosened.  He  turned, 
and  saw  the  poor  boy  stretched  on  the  ground.  — 
"Stop,  let  me  go  with  you,"  gasped  out  Abel.  —  "Do 
not  murder  —  murder!  " 

"Murder?  The  deed's  yours  —  Theirs.  They 
who  set  you  on  to  curse  me  —  all  do  it.  —  'T  is  done! 
One  hell  swallows  up  all!"  he  screamed,  spurning 
Abel  from  him,  and  rushing  on  again.  This  was  too 
much  for  Abel's  weakened  reason.  To  believe  he 
had  been  used  as  the  eternal  curse  of  the  man  who 
had  been  kind  to  him  and  nourished  him,  when  no 
one  else  would  so  much  as  look  on  him,  and  to  be 
thrown  off  at  last  by  him,  too!  —  He  sprang  from  the 
ground,  he  leaped,  he  danced,  he  shouted,  and  ran  in, 
mad,  among  the  rocks. 

When  Mr.  Waring  reached  the  house,  he  found 
his  daughter  lying  in  a  state  of  mind  but  faintly  con 
scious  of  what  had  passed.  He  took  her  hand,  and 
called  her  by  name.  She  looked  up  at  him  surpris 
ed.  —  "I  thought  you  had  gone,  Sir!  —  Why  are  you 


372  PAUL    FELTON. 

here?"  she   asked  eagerly,   as  she  rose.       "  Is  he 
found?  is  ho  mad  —  dead?" 

"  We  have  discovered  nothing;  but  I  was  unwilling 
to  leave  you." 

"Then  you  would  not  leave  me;  yet  he  could  — 
he  could  leave  me  — break  my  heart,  and  leave  me 
to  die  alone,  all  alone.  —  Do  not  blame  me,  Paul; 
indeed,  indeed,  I  meant  nothing.  I  know,  mortal 
cannot  toll  or  think  how  much  you  love  me.  —  Come, 
let  me  part  hack  your  hair  —  So  !  so  !  I  must  smooth 
that  brow,  too.  There!  there!  Now  you  look  as 
you  do  when  you  call  me  your  own  Esther!" 

"My  child,  my  daughter,"  said  her  father,  "try 
to  recollect  yourself." 

«  I  do  now;  but  my  mind  wanders  strangely.  O, 
my  father,  he  had  a  soul  so  large!  And  when  wild 
thought,  I  know  not  what  they  were,  did  not  possess 
it,  it  was  so  full  of  love  for  me  !  They  fired  his  brain, 
and  he  's  gone  away  to  die,  none  know  whither;  and 
I  cannot  go  to  him.  —  But  I,  too,  shall  die  soon;  and 
then  1  '11  meet  him  where  there's  no  more  trouble," 
she  sobbed  out,  as  she  fell  on  her  father's  neck,  while 
he  supported  her  in  his  arms. 

At  this  instant  Paul  reached  one  of  the  windows; 
the  curtains  were  partly  closed.  There  was  a  dim 
light  ia  the  room.  He  had  heard  that  the  father  had 
gone  on  his  journey;  and  not  long  before,  Abel  had 
seen  Frank  go  into  the  house.  He  could  just  per 
ceive  his  wife  hanging  round  some  one's  neck,  and 
the  man's  arm  round  her  waist.  At  the  sight,  he  gave 
a  short  of  demoniac  triumph,  and  ran  from  the  window. 
Loud  us  it  was,  Esther  was  too  much  lost  in  her 
wretchedness  to  hear  it.  Her  father  was  alarmed; 
and  without  telling  her  what  he  had  heard  or  suspect- 


PAUL    FELTON.  373 

ed,  advised  her  to  rest  awhile,  and  then  went  out  with 
the  servants.  They  returned  disappointed.  He  told 
Esther  he  would  not  leave  the  house  that  night,  as 
she  was  not  well.  At  a  late  hour,  all  being  still 
abroad,  they  retired  to  rest;  and  Esther,  worn  with 
her  distress,  soon  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

Paul  drew  near  the  house  once  more,  nrid  watched 
till  the  last  light  was  put  out.  —  "  The  innocent  and 
guilty  both  sleep,  all  but  Paul!  Not  even  the  grave 
will  be  a  resting  place  for  me!  They  hum  and  drive 
me  to  the  deed;  and  when  'tis  done,  will  snatch  the 
abhorred  soul  to  fires  and  tortures.  Why  should  I 
rest  more?  The  bosom  I  slept  sweetly  on —  blissful 
dreams  stealing  over  me  —  the  bosom  that  to  my  de 
lighted  soul  seemed  all  fond  and  faithful  —  why,  what 
harboured  in  it?  Lust  and  deceit,  and  sly,  plotting 
thoughts,  showing  love  where  they  most  loathed. 
They  stung  me, — ay,  in  my  sleep,  crept  out  upon 
me,  and  stung  rne,  —  poisoned  my  very  soul  —  hot, 
burning  poisons  !  —  Peace,  peace,  your  promptings, 
Ye  that  put  me  to  this  deed,  —  drive  me  not  mad ! 
Am  I  not  about  it?  " 

He  walked  up  cautiously  to  the  door,  and  taking  a 
key  from  his  pocket,  unlocked  it,  and  went  in.  There 
was  now  a  suspense  of  all  feeling  in  him.  He  entered 
the  parlour.  His  wife's  shawl  was  hanging  on  the 
back  of  a  chair;  books  in  which  he  had  read  to  her 
were  lying  on  the  table,  and  her  work-table,  near  it, 
open.  His  eye  passed  over  them,  but  there  was  no 
emotion.  He  left  the  room,  and  ascended  the  stairs 
with  a  slow,  soft  step,  stealing  through  his  own  house 
cautiously  as  a  thief.  He  unlocked  the  door  of  his 
dressing-room,  and  passed  on  without  noticing  any 
part  of  it.  His  hand  shook  as  he  partly  opened  his 


374  PAUL    FELTOX. 

wife's  chamber  door.  He  listened — all  was  still. 
He  cast  his  eye  round,  then  entered  and  shut  the 
door  after  him.  He  walked  up  by  the  side  of  her  bed 
without  turning  his  eyes  towards  it,  and  seated  himself 
down  upon  it,  by  her.  Then  it  was  he  dared  to  look 
on  her,  as  she  lay  in  all  her  beauty,  wrapt  in  a  sleep 
so  gentle  he  could  not  hear  her  breathing.  She 
looked  as  if  an  angel  talked  with  her  in  her  dreams. 
Her  dark,  glossy  hair  had  fallen  over  her  bright,  fair 
neck  and  bosom,  and  the  moonlight,  striking  through 
it,  penciled  it  in  beautiful  thready  shadows  on  her. 

Paul  sat  for  a  while  with  folded  arms,  looking  down 
on  her.  His  eye  moved  not,  and  in  his  dark  face 
was  the  unchanging  hardness  of  stone.  His  mind 
appeared  elsewhere.  There  was  no  longer  feeling  in 
him.  He  seemed  waiting  the  order  of  some  stern 
power.  The  command  at  last  came.  He  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  heart,  and  felt  its  regular  beat;  then 
drew  the  knife  from  his  bosom.  Once  more  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  heart;  then  put  the  point  there. 
He  pressed  his  eyes  close  with  one  hand,  and  the 
knife  sunk  to  the  handle.  There  was  a  convulsive 
start,  and  a  groan.  He  looked  on  her.  A  slight 
flutter  passed  over  her  frame,  and  her  filmy  eyes 
opened  on  him  once;  but  he  looked  as  senseless  as 
the  body  that  lay  before  him.  The  moon  shone  fully 
on  the  corpse,  and  on  him  that  sat  by  it;  and  the  si 
lent  night  went  on.  By  and  by,  up  came  the  sun  in 
the  hot  flushed  sky,  and  sent  his  rays  over  them. 
Paul  moved  not,  nor  heeded  the  change.  There  was 
no  noise,  nor  motion — there  were  they  two  together, 
like  two  of  the  dead. 

At  last  Esther's  attendant,  entering  suddenly,  saw 
the  gloomy  figure  of  Paul  before  her.  She  ran  out 


PAUL    FELTON.  375 

with  a  cry  of  terror,  and  in  a  moment  the  room  was 
filled  with  servants.  The  old  man  came  in,  trembling 
and  weak;  no  tear  was  wrung  from  him,  nor  a  groan. 
He  bowed  his  head,  as  saying,  It  is  done. 

The  alarm  was  given,  and  Frank,  with  the  neigh 
bours,  went  up  to  the  chamber.  Though  the  room 
was  nearly  full,  not  a  sound  was  heard.  The  stillness 
seemed  to  spread  from  Paul  and  the  dead,  over  them 
all.  Frank  and  some  others  came  near  him,  and 
stood  before  him ;  but  he  continued  looking  on  his  wife, 
as  he  sat  with  his  crossed  hands  resting  on  his  thigh; 
while  the  one  which  had  done  the  murder,  still  held 
the  bloody  knife. 

No  one  moved.  At  last  they  looked  at  each  other, 
and  one  of  them  took  Paul  by  the  wrist.  He  turned 
his  slow,  heavy  eye  on  them,  as  if  asking  who  they 
were,  and  what  they  wanted.  They  instinctively 
shrunk  back,  letting  go  their  hold,  and  his  arm  fell 
like  a  dead  man's. 

There  was  a  movement  near  the  door;  and  presently 
Abel  stood  directly  before  Paul,  his  hands  drawn  be 
tween  his  knees,  his  body  distorted  and  writhing  as 
with  pain;  the  muscles  of  his  face  hard  and  twisted, 
and  his  features  pinched,  cold,  and  blue.  There  was 
a  gleam  and  glitter,  and  something  of  a  laugh,  and 
anguish,  too,  in  his  crazed  eye,  as  it  flitted  back  and 
forth  from  Esther  to  Paul.  At  last  Paul  glanced  up 
on  him.  At  the  sight  of  Abel  he  gave  a  shuddering 
start  that  shook  the  room.  He  looked  once  more  on 
his  wife;  his  hair  rose  up,  and  eyes  became  wild.  — 
"  Esther!  "  he  gasped  out,  tossing  up  his  arms  as  he 
threw  himself  forward.  He  struck  the  bed,  and  fell 
to  the  floor.  Abel  looked,  and  saw  his  face  black 
with  the  rush  of  blood  to  the  head;  then  giving  a  leap 


376  PAUL    FELTON. 

at  which  he  nearly  touched  the  ceiling,  with  a  deaf 
ening  shriek  that  rung  through  the  house,  darted  out 
of  the  chamber,  and,  at  a  spring,  reached  the  outer 
door. 

They  felt  of  Paul.  —Life  had  left  him. 

Frank  took  the  father  from  the  room.  Preparations 
were  hastily  made;  and  about  the  close  of  the  day,  Es 
ther's  body,  followed  by  a  few  neighbours  and  friends, 
was  carried  to  the  grave.  The  grave-yard  was  not  far 
from  the  foot  of  the  stony  ridge.  As  they  drew  near 
it,  the  sun  was  just  going  down,  and  the  sky  clear, 
and  of  a  bright,  warm  glow.  Presently  a  figure  was 
seen  running  and  darting  in  crossing  movements  along 
the  top  of  the  ridge,  leaping  from  point  to  point,  more 
like  a  creature  of  the  air  than  of  the  earth,  for  it  hard 
ly  seemed  to  touch  on  any  thing.  It  was  mad  Abel. 
So  swift  and  shooting  were  his  motions,  and  so  quick 
ly  did  he  leap  and  dance  to  and  fro,  that  it  appeared 
to  the  dazzled  eye  as  if  there  were  hundreds  holding 
their  hellish  revels  in  the  air;  and  now  and  then  a 
wild  laugh  reached  the  mourners,  that  seemed  to  come 
out  from  the  still  sky.  When  it  was  night,  the  men 
who  had  made  Paul's  grave  a  little  without  the  con 
secrated  ground,  came  to  the  house,  and  taking  up 
the  body,  moved  off  toward  the  place  in  which  they 
were  to  lay  it.  — No  bell  tolled  for  the  departed;  no 
one  followed  to  mourn  over  him,  as  he  was  laid  in  the 
ground  away  from  man,  or  to  hear  the  earth  fall  on 
his  coffin  —  that  sound  which  makes  us  feel  as  if  our 
living  bodies,  too,  were  crumbling  into  dust. 

It  had  been  a  chilly  night;  and  while  the  frost  was 
yet  heavy  on  the  grass,  some  of  the  neighbours  went 
to  wonder  and  moralize  over  Paul's  grave.  There 
appeared  something  singular  upon  it.  They  ventured 


PAUL  FELTON.  377 

timidly  on,  and  found  lying  across  it,  poor  Abel.  He 
was  apparently  dead;  and  some  of  the  boldest  took 
hold  of  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  a  little,  and  uttered 
a  faint,  weak  cry.  They  dropped  their  hold;  his  limbs 
quivered  and  stretched  out  rigid  —  then  relaxed.  His 
breath  came  once,  broken  and  quick  —  it  was  his  last. 


THE   SON. 


thou  art  all  obedience,  love  and  goodness. 

I  dnre  say  that  which  thousand  fathers  cannot. 
And  that 's  my  precious  comfort ;  never  son 
Was  in  the  way  of  more  celestial  rising  ; — 

The  Old  Law. 


THERE  is  no  virtue  without  a  characteristic  beauty 
to  render  it  particularly  loved  of  the  good,  and  to 
make  the  bad  ashamed  of  their  neglect  of  it.  To  do 
what  is  right  argues  superior  taste  as  well  as  morals: 
and  those  whose  practice  is  evil  feel  an  inferiority  of 
intellectual  power  and  enjoyment,  even  where  they 
take  no  concern  for  a  principle.  Doing  well  has 
something  more  in  it  than  the  mere  fulfilling  of  a  duty. 
It  is  a  cause  of  a  just  sense  of  elevation  of  character; 
it  clears  and  strengthens  the  spirits;  it  gives  higher 
reaches  of  thought;  it  widens  our  benevolence,  and 
makes  the  current  of  our  peculiar  affections  swift  and 
deep.  A  sacrifice  was  never  yet  offered  to  a  princi 
ple,  that  was  not  made  up  to  us  by  self-approval,  and 
the  consideration  of  what  our  degradation  would  have 
been,  had  we  done  otherwise.  Certainly  it  is  a 
pleasant  and  a  wise  thing,  then,  to  follow  what  is  right, 
when  we  only  go  along  without  affections,  and  take 
the  easy  way  of  the  better  propensities  of  our  nature. 

The  world  is  sensible  of  these  truths,  let  it  act  as 
it  may.  It  is  not  because  of  his  integrity  alone  that 


THE    SON.  379 

it  relies  on  an  honest  man;  but  it  has  more  confidence 
in  his  judgment  and  wise  conduct,  in  the  long  run, 
than  in  the  schemes  of  those  of  greater  intellect,  who 
go  at  large  without  any  landmarks  of  principle.  So 
that  virtue  seems  of  a  double  nature,  and  to  stand 
oftentimes  in  the  place  of  what  we  call  talents. 

This  reasoning,  or  rather  feeling,  of  the  world  is 
right ;  for  the  honest  man  only  falls  in  with  the  order 
of  nature,  which  is  grounded  in  truth,  and  will  endure 
along  with  it.  And  such  a  hold  has  a  good  man  upon 
the  world,  even  where  he  has  not  been  called  upon  to 
make  a  sacrifice  to  a  principle,  or  to  take  a  stand 
against  wrong,  but  has  merely  avoided  running  into 
vices,  and  suffered  himself  to  be  borne  along  by  the 
delightful  and  kind  affections  of  private  life,  and  has 
found  his  pleasure  in  practising  the  duties  of  home, 
that  he  is  looked  up  to  with  respect,  as  well  as  re 
garded  with  kindness.  We  attach  certain  notions  of 
refinement  to  his  thoughts,  and  of  depth  to  his  senti 
ment,  and  the  impression  he  makes  on  us  is  beautiful 
and  peculiar.  Although  we  may  have  nothing  in 
particular  to  object  to  in  other  men,  and  though  they 
may  be  very  well,  in  their  way,  still,  while  in  his 
presence,  they  strike  us  as  lacking  something,  we 
can  hardly  say  what  —  a  certain  sensitive  delicacy  of 
character  and  manner,  wanting  which,  they  affect  us 
as  more  or  less  insensible,  or  even  vulgar. 

No  creature  in  the  world  has  this  character  so  finely 
marked  in  him,  as  a  respectful  and  affectionate  son  — 
particularly  in  his  relation  to  his  mother.  Every  little 
attention  he  pays  her  is  not  only  an  expression  of 
filial  attachment,  and  a  grateful  acknowledgment  of 
past  cares,  but  is  an  evidence  of  a  tenderness  of  disposi 
tion  which  moves  us  the  more,  because  not  so  much 


380  THE    SON. 

looked  on  as  an  essential  property  in  a  man's  character, 
as  an  added  grace  which  is  bestowed  only  upon  a  few. 
His  regards  do  not  appear  like  mere  habits  of  duty, 
nor  does  his  watchfulness  of  his  mother's  wishes  seem 
like  taught  submission  to  her  will.  They  are  the 
native  courtesies  of  a  feeling  mind,  showing  them 
selves  amid  stern  virtues  and  masculine  energies, 
like  gleams  of  light  on  points  of  rocks.  They  are 
delightful  as  evidences  of  power  yielding  voluntary 
homage  to  the  delicacy  of  the  soul.  The  armed  knee 
is  bent,  and  the  heart  of  the  mailed  man  laid  bare. 

Feelings  that  would  seem  to  be  at  variance  with 
each  other,  meet  together  and  harmonize  in  the  breast 
of  a  son.  Every  call  of  the  mother  which  he  answers 
to.  and  every  act  of  submission  which  he  performs, 
are  not  only  so  many  acknowledgments  of  her  author 
ity,  but  so  many  instances,  also,  of  kindness,  and 
marks  of  protecting  regard.  The  servant  and  de 
fender,  the  child  and  guardian,  are  all  mingled  in  him. 
The  world  looks  on  him  in  this  way;  and  to  draw 
upon  a  man  the  confidence,  the  respect,  and  the  love 
of  the  world,  it  is  enough  to  say  of  him,  He  is  a 
good  Son. 


"The  sun  not  set  yet,  Thomas?"  "  Not  quite, 
Sir.  It  blazes  through  the  trees  on  the  hill  yonder,  as 
if  the  branches  were  all  on  fire." 

Arthur  raised  himself  heavily  forward,  and  with  his 
hat  still  over  his  brow,  turned  his  glazed  and  dim  eyes 
toward  the  setting  sun.  It  was  only  the  night  before 
that  he  had  heard  his  mother  was  ill,  and  could  sur 
vive  but  a  day  or  two.  He  had  lived  nearly  apart 


THE    SON.  381 

from  society,  and  being  a  lad  of  a  thoughtful,  dreamy 
mind,  had  made  a  world  to  himself.  His  thoughts  and 
feelings  were  so  much  in  it,  that  except  in  relation  to 
his  own  home,  there  were  the  same  vague  and 
strange  notions  in  his  brain  concerning  the  state 
of  things  surrounding  him,  as  we  have  of  a  foreign 
land. 

The  main  feeling  which  this  self-made  world  excited 
in  him  was  love;  and  as  with  most  at  his  time  of  life, 
his  mind  had  formed  for  itself  a  being  suited  to  its 
own  fancies.  This  was  the  romance-  of  life;  and 
though  men,  with  minds  like  his,  often-times  make 
imagination  to  stand  in  the  place  of  real  existence, 
and  to  take  to  itself  as  deep  feeling  and  concern,  yet 
in  the  domestic  relations,  which  are  so  near, .  and 
usual,  and  private,  they  feel  longer  and  more  deeply 
than  those  do  who  look  upon  their  homes  as  only  a 
better  part  of  the  world  which  they  belong  to.  Indeed, 
in  affectionate  and  good  men  of  a  visionary  cast,  it  is 
in  some  sort  only  realizing  their  hopes  and  desires,  to 
turn  them  homeward.  Arthur  felt  that  it  was  so;  and 
he  loved  his  household  the  more,  that  they  gave  him 
an  .earnest  of  one  day  realizing  all  his  hopes  and 
attachments. 

Arthur's  mother  was  peculiarly  dear  to  him,  in 
having  a  character  so  much  like  his  own.  For  though 
the  cares  and  attachments  of  life  had  long  ago  taken 
place  of  a  fanciful  existence  in  her,  yet  her  natural 
turn  of  mind  was  strong  enough  to  give  to  these 
something  of  the  romance  of  her  disposition.  This 
had  led  to  a  more  than  usual  openness  and  intimacy 
between  Arthur  and  his  mother,  and  now  brought  to 
his  remembrance  the  hours  they  had  sat  together  by 
the  fire-light,  when  he  listened  to  her  mild  and 


382  THE    SON. 

melancholy  voice,  as  she  spoke  of  what  she  had 
undergone  at  the  loss  of  her  parents  and  husband. 
Her  gentle  rebuke  of  his  faults,  her  affectionate  look 
of  approval  when  he  had  done  well,  her  care  that  he 
should  be  a  just  man,  and  her  motherly  anxiety  lest 
the  world  should  go  hard  with  him,  all  crowded 
into  his  mind,  and  he  thought  that  every  worldly 
attachment  was  hereafter  to  be  a  vain  thing  to 
him. 

He  had  passed  the  night,  before  his  journey, 
between  tumultuous  grief,  and  numb  insensibility. 
Stepping  into  the  carriage,  with  a  slow,  weak  motion, 
like  one  who  was  quitting  his  sick  chamber  for  the 
first  time,  he  began  his  way  homeward.  As  he  lifted 
his  eyes  upward,  the  few  stars  that  were  here  and 
there  over  the  sky,  seemed  to  look  down  in  pity,  and 
shed  a  religious  and  healing  light  upon  him.  But 
they  soon  went  out,  one  after  another,  and  as  the  last 
faded  from  his  imploring  sight,  it  was  as  if  every 
thing  good  and  holy  had  forsaken  him.  The  faint 
tint  in  the  east  soon  became  a  ruddy  glow,  and  the 
sun,  shooting  upward,  burst  over  every  living  thing  in 
full  glory.  The  sight  went  to  Arthur's  sick  heart,  as 
if  it  were  in  mockery  of  his  misery. 

Leaning  back  in  his  carriage,  with  his  hand  over 
his  eyes,  he  was  carried  along,  hardly  sensible  it  was 
day.  The  old  servant,  Thomas,  who  was  sitting  by 
his  side,  went  on  talking  in  a  low  monotonous  tone; 
but  Arthur  only  heard  something  sounding  in  his  ears, 
scarcely  heeding  that  it  was  a  human  voice.  He  had 
a  sense  of  wearisomeness  from  the  motion  of  the 
carriage,  but  in  all  things  else  the  day  passed  as  a 
melancholy  dream. 

Almost  the  first  words  Arthur  spoke  were  those  I 


THE    SON.  383 

have  mentioned.  As  he  looked  out  upon  the  setting 
sun,  he  shuddered  through  his  whole  frame,  and  then 
became  sick  and  pale,  for  he  knew  the  hill  near  him; 
and  as  they  wound  round  it,  some  peculiar  old  trees 
appeared;  and  he  was  in  a  few  minutes  in  the  midst 
of  the  scenery  near  his  home.  The  river  before  him, 
reflecting  the  rich  evening  sky,  looked  as  if  poured 
out  from  a  molten  mine;  and  the  birds,  gathering  in, 
were  shooting  across  each  other,  bursting  into  short, 
gay  notes,  or  singing  their  evening  songs  in  the  trees: 
It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  find  all  so  bright  and  cheerful, 
and  so  near  his  own  home  too.  His  horses'  hoofs 
struck  upon  the  old  wooden  bridge:  The  sound  went 
to  his  heart.  It  was  here  his  mother  took  her  last 
leave  of  him,  and  blessed  him. 

As  he  passed  through  the  village,  there  was  a  feeling 
of  strangeness,  that  every  thing  should  be  just  as  it 
was  when  he  left  it.  An  undefined  thought  floated  in 
his  mind,  that  his  mother's  state  should  produce  a 
visible  change  in  all  that  he  had  been  familiar  with. 
But  the  boys  were  at  their  noisy  games  in  the  street, 
the  labourers  returning  together  from  their  work,  and 
the  old  men  sitting  quietly  at  their  doors.  He 
concealed  himself  as  well  as  he  could,  and  bade 
Thomas  hasten  on. 

As  they  drew  near  the  house,  the  night  was  shutting 
in  about  it,  and  there  was  a  melancholy,  gusty  sound 
in  the  trees.  Arthur  felt  as  if  approaching  his  mother's 
tomb.  He  entered  the  parlour.  All  was  as  gloomy 
and  still  as  a  deserted  house.  Presently  he  heard  a 
slow,  cautious  step,  over-head.  It  was  in  his  mother's 
chamber.  His  sister  had  seen  him  from  the  window. 
She  hurried  down,  and  threw  her  arms  about  her 
brother's  neck,  without  uttering  a  word.  As  soon  as 


384  THE    SON. 

he  could  speak,  he  asked,  "  Is  she  alive  ?  "  —  he  could 
not  say,  my  mother.  "  She  is  sleeping,"  answered 
his  sister,  "  and  must  not  know  to  night  that  you  are 
here;  she  is  too  weak  to  bear  it  now."  "  I  will  go 
look  at  her  then,  while  she  sleeps,"  said  he,  drawing 
his  handkerchief  from  his  face.  His  sister's  sympathy 
had  made  him  shed  the  first  tears  which  had  fallen 
from  him  that  day,  and  he  was  more  composed. 

He  entered  the  chamber  with  a  deep  and  still  awe 
upon  him;  and  as  he  drew  near  his  mother's  bed-side, 
and  looked  on  her  pale,  placid,  and  motionless  face, 
he  scarcely  dared  breathe,  lest  he  should  disturb  the 
secret  communion  that  the  soul  was  holding  with  the 
world  into  which  it  was  soon  to  enter.  His  heavy 
grief,  in  the  loss  that  he  was  about  to  suffer,  was 
forgotten  in  the  feeling  of  a  holy  inspiration,  and  he 
was,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  invisible  spirits  ascend 
ing  and  descending.  His  mother's  lips  moved  slightly 
as  she  uttered  an  indistinct  sound.  He  drew  back, 
and  his  sister  went  near  to  her,  and  she  spoke.  It 
was  the  same  gentle  voice  which  he  had  known  and 
felt  from  his  childhood.  The  exaltation  of  his  soul  left 
him,  he  sunk  down,  and  his  misery  went  over  him  like 
a  flood. 

The  next  day,  as  soon  as  his  mother  became 
composed  enough  to  see  him,  Arthur  went  into  her 
chamber.  She  stretched  out  her  feeble  hand,  and 
turned  toward  him,  with  a  look  that  blessed  him.  It 
was  the  short  struggle  of  a  meek  spirit.  She  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  the  tears  trickled  down 
between  her  pale,  thin  fingers.  As  soon  as  she  became 
tranquil,  she  spoke  of  the  gratitude  she  felt  at  being 
spared  to  see  him  before  she  died. 

"  My  dear  mother,"  said  Arthur.      But  he  could 


THE    SON.  385: 


not  go  on;  his  voice  choked,  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "  Do  not  be  so  afflicted,  Arthur,  at  the  loss  of 
me.  We  are  not  to  part  for  ever.  Remember,  too, 
how  comfortable  and  happy  you  have  made  my  days. 
Heaven,  I  know,  will  bless  so  good  a  son  as  you  have 
been  to  me.  You  will  have  that  consolation,  my  son, 
which  visits  but  a  few  —  you  will  be  able  to  look 
back  upon  your  past  conduct  to  me,  not  without  pain 
only,  but  with  a  holy  joy.  And  think,  hereafter,  of 
the  peace  of  mind  you  give  me,  now  that  I  am  about 
to  die,  in  the  thought  that  I  am  leaving  your  sister  to 
your  love  and  care.  So  long  as  you  live,  she  will 
find  you  a  father  and  brother  to  her."  She  paused 
for  a  moment.  "  I  have  long  felt  that  I  could  meet 
death  with  composure;  but  I  did  not  know/'  she  said, 
"  I  did  not  know,  till  now  that  the  hour  is  come,  how 
hard  a  thing  it  would  be  to  leave  my  children." 

After  a  little  while  she  spoke  of  his  father,  and 
said,  she  had  lived  in  the  belief  that  he  was  mindful 
of  her,  and  with  the  conviction,  which  grew  stronger 
as  death  approached,  that  she  should  meet  him  in 
another  world.  She  spoke  but  little  more,  as  she 
grew  weaker  and  weaker  every  hour.  Arthur  sat  by 
in  silence,  holding  her  hand.  He  saw  that  she  was 
sensible  he  was  watching  her  countenance,  for  every 
now  and  then  she  opened  her  eyes  upon  him,  and 
endeavoured  to  smile. 

The  day  wore  slowly  away.  The  sun  went  down, 
and  the  still  twilight  came  on.  Nothing  was  heard 
but  the  ticking  of  the  watch,  telling  him  with  a  resistless 
power,  that  the  hour  was  drawing  nigh.  He  gasped, 
as  if  under  some  invisible,  gigantic  grasp,  which  it 
was  not  for  human  strength  to  struggle  against. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  and  by  the  pale  light 

•+>£) 


386  THE    SON. 

night-lamp  in  the  chimney-corner,  the  furniture  in  the 
room  threw  huge  and  uncouth  figures  over  the  walls. 
All  was  unsubstantial  and  visionary;  and  the  shadowy 
ministers  of  death  appeared  gathering  round,  waiting 
the  duty  ofthe  hour  appointed  them  Arthur  shuddered 
for  a  moment  with  superstitious  awe;  but  the  solemn 
elevation  which  a  good  man  feels  at  the  sight  of  the 
dying  took  possession  of  him,  and  he  became  calm 
again. 

The  approach  of  death  has  so  much  which  is  exalt 
ing  that  our  grief,  for  the  time,  is  forgotten.  And 
could  one  who  had  seen  Arthur  a  few  hours  before, 
now  have  looked  upon  the  grave  and  even  grand 
repose  of  his  countenance,  he  would  hardly  have 
known  him. 

The  livid  hue  of  death  was  fast  spreading  over  his 
mother's  face.  He  stooped  forward  to  catch  the 
sound  of  her  breathing.  It  grew  quick  and  faint. — 
"  My  mother." —  She  opened  her  eyes  for  the  last 
time,  upon  him,  and  a  faint  flush  passed  over  her 
cheek — there  was  the  serenity  of  an  angel  in  her 
look.  Her  hand  just  pressed  his:  — it  was  all  over. 

His  spirit  had  endured  to  its  utmost;  it  sunk  down 
from  its  unearthly  height;  and  with  his  face  upon  his 
mother's  pillow,  he  wept  like  a  child.  He  arose  with 
a  softened  grief,  and  stepping  into  an  adjoining 
chamber,  spoke  to  his  aunt.  "  It  is  past,"  said  he. 
'<  Is  my  sister  asleep?  — Well,  be  it  so:  let  her  have 
rest;  she  needs  it."  He  then  went  to  his  own 
chamber,  and  shut  himself  in. 

It  is  a  merciful  thing  that  the  intense  suffering  of 
sensitive  minds  makes  to  itself  a  relief.  Violent  grief 
brings  on  a  torpor  and  indistinctness,  as  from  long 
Watching.  It  is  not  till  the  violence  of  affliction  has 


THE    SON.  387 

subsided,  and  gentle  and  soothing  thoughts  can  find 
room  to  mix  with  our  sorrow,  and  holy  consolations 
can  minister  to  us,  that  we  are  able  to  know  fully  our 
loss,  and  see  clearly  what  has  been  torn  away  from 
our  affections.  It  was  so  with  Arthur.  Unconnected 
thoughts,  with  melancholy  but  half-formed  images, 
were  floating  in  his  mind;  and  now  and  then  a  gleam 
of  light  would  pass  through  it,  as  if  he  had  been  in  a 
troubled  trance,  and  all  was  right  again.  His  worn 
and  tired  feelings  at  last  found  rest  in  sleep. 

It  is  an  impression  which  we  cannot  rid  ourselves 
of,  if  we  would,  when  sitting  by  the  body  of  a  friend, 
that  he  has  still  a  consciousness  of  our  presence  —  that 
though  the  common  concerns  of  the  world  have  no 
more  to  do  with  him,  he  has  still  a  love  and  care  of 
us.  The  face  which  we  had  so  long  been  familiar 
with,  when  it  was  all  life  and  motion,  seems  only  in  a 
state  of  rest.  We  know  not  how  to  make  it  real  to 
ourselves,  that  in  the  body  before  us  there  is  not  a 
something  still  alive. 

Arthur  was  in  such  a  state  of  mind,  as  he  sat  alone 
in  the  room  by  his  mother,  the  day  after  her  death. 
It  was  as  if  her  soul  was  holding  communion  with 
pure  spirits  in  paradise,  though  it  still  abode  in 
the  body  that  lay  before  him.  He  felt  as  if  sanc 
tified  by  the  presence  of  one  to  whom  the  other 
world  had  been  laid  open — as  if  under  the  love 
and  protection  of  one  made  holy.  The  religious 
reflections  that  his  mother  had  early  taught  him,  gave 
him  strength;  a  spiritual  composure  stole  over  him, 
and  he  found  himself  prepared  to  perform  the  last 
offices  to  the  dead. 

Is  it  not  enough  to  see  our  friends  die,  and  part 
with  them  for  the  rest  of  our  days  —  to  reflect  that 


388  THE    SON. 

we  shall  hear  their  voices  no  more,  and  that  they  will 
never  look  on  us  again  —  to  see  that  turning  to  cor 
ruption  which  was  but  just  now  alive,  and  eloquent, 
and  beautiful  with  the  sensations  of  the  soul?  Are 
our  sorrows  so  sacred  and  peculiar  as  to  make  the 
world  as  vanity  to  us,  and  the  men  of  it  as  strangers, 
and  shall  we  not  be  left  to  our  afflictions  for  a  few 
hours?  Must  we  be  brought  out  at  such  a  time  to 
the  concerned  or  careless  gaze  of  those  we  know 
not,  or  be  made  to  bear  the  formal  proffers  of  conso 
lation  from  acquaintances,  who  will  go  away  and  for 
get  it  all?  Shall  we  not  be  suffered  for  a  little  while, 
a  holy  and  healing  communion  with  the  dead?  Must 
the  kindred  stillness  and  gloom  of  our  dwelling  be 
changed  for  the  show  of  the  pall,  the  talk  of  the  pass 
ers-by,  and  the  broad  and  piercing  light  of  the  com 
mon  sun?  Must  the  ceremonies  of  the  world  wait  on 
us,  even  to  the  open  graves  of  our  friends? 

When  the  hour  came,  Arthur  rose  with  a  firm  step 
and  fixed  eye,  though  his  face  was  tremulous  with  the 
struggle  within  him.  He  went  to  his  sister,  and  took 
her  arm  within  his.  The  bell  struck.  Its  heavy, 
undulatino-  sound  rolled  forward  like  a  sea.  He  felt 

O 

a  violent  beating  through  his  frame,  which  shook  him 
so  that  he  reeled .  It  was  but  a  momentary  weakness. 
He  moved  on,  passing  those  who  surrounded  him,  as 
if  they  had  been  shadows.  While  he  followed  the 
slow  hearse,  there  was  a  vacancy  in  his  eye,  as  it 
rested  on  the  coffin,  which  showed  him  hardly  con 
scious  of  what  was  before  him.  His  spirit  was  with 
his  mother's.  As  he  reached  the  grave,  he  shrunk 
back  and  turned  deadly  pale;  but  dropping  his  head 
upon  his  breast,  and  drawing  his  hat  over  his  face,  he 
stood  motionless  as  a  statue  till  the  service  was  over. 


THE    SON.  389 

He  had  gone  through  all  that  the  forms  of  society 
required  of  him.  For  as  painful  as  the  effort  was, 
and  as  little  suited  as  such  forms  were  to  his  own 
thoughts  upon  the  subject,  yet  he  could  not  do  any 
thing  that  might  appear  to  the  world  like  a  want  of 
reverence  and  respect  for  his  mother.  The  scene 
was  ended,  and  the  inward  struggle  over;  and  now 
that  he  was  left  to  himself,  the  greatness  of  his  loss 
came  up  full  and  distinctly  before  him. 

It  was  a  gloomy  and  chilly  evening  when  he  return 
ed  home.  As  he  entered  the  house  from  which  his 
mother  had  gone  for  ever,  a  sense  of  dreary  emptiness 
oppressed  him,  as  if  his  abode  had  been  deserted  by 
every  living  thing.  He  walked  into  his  mother's 
chamber.  The  naked  bedstead,  and  the  chair  in  which 
she  used  to  sit,  were  all  that  were  left  in  the  room. 
As  he  threw  himself  back  into  the  chair,  he  groaned 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit.  A  feeling  of  forlorn- 
ness  came  over  him,  which  was  not  to  be  relieved  by 
tears.  She  whom  he  watched  over  in  her  dying  hour, 
and  whom  he  had  talked  to  as  she  lay  before  him  in 
death,  as  if  she  could  hear  and  answer  him,  had 
gone  from  him.  Nothing  was  left  for  the  senses  to 
faaten  fondly  on,  and  time  had  not  yet  taught  him  to 
think  of  her  only  as  a  spirit.  But  time  and  holy  en 
deavours  brought  this  consolation;  and  the  little  of 
life  that  a  wasting  disease  left  him,  was  past  by  him, 
when  alone,  in  thoughtful  tranquillity;  and  among  his 
friends  he  appeared  with  that  gentle  cheerfulness 
which,  before  his  mother's  death,  had  been  a  part  of 
his  nature. 


A  LETTER   FROM   TOWN 


"  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ?  " 

SHAKSPEARE. 

"If  your  concern  for  pleasing  others  arises  from  innate  benevolence,  it 
never  fails  of  success  ;  if  from  vanity  to  excel,  its  disappointment  is  no  less 
certain."  THE  SPECTATOR. 

"  In  a  word,  good-breeding  shows  itself  most,  where,  to  an  ordinary  eye, 
it  appears  the  least."  SAJHE 


My  Dear  Friend, 

WHEN  I  left  you  and  the  country,  for  the  city,  I 
promised  to  send  you  a  portion  of  what  I  might  gather 
up  here  in  the  course  of  my  walks,  business,  and 
visitings;  and  I  now  take  the  first  odd  moment  of 
composure  that  I  have  been  blessed  with  since  reach 
ing  this  bustling  city.  I  say  —  of  composure;  for 
though  I  am  naturally  of  a  steady  disposition,  as  you 
well  know,  you  can  hardly  conceive  what  a  whirligig 
town-life  makes  of  a  plain  country-gentleman,  like 
myself.  Where  I  see  that  men  have  a  clear  appre 
hension  of  their  motives  to  action,  it  never  jars 
the  even  motions  of  my  mind,  however  varied  and 
great  the  action  around  me  may  be;  and  for  the  very 
simple  reason,  I  suppose,  that  wherever  there  is  a 
main,  distinct  purpose,  there  must  be  conducive  order, 
however  complicated  and  rapid  the  movements.  But 


A    LETTER   FROM   TOWN. 


391 


where  men  are  kept  in  a  perpetual  spin-round  from  a 
mere  accidental  and  hurried  touch-and-go  meeting 
with  one  another,  I  myself,  sky,  earth,  and  all 
upon  it,  get  into  a  whirl,  and  I  find  myself  fast  under 
going  the  general  metamorphosis,  and  becoming,  like 
every  one  around  me,  a  humming-top.  Yes,  my  dear 
friend,  you  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  city, 
and  about  its  inhabitants; — they  are  all  humming- 
tops:  And  the  best  of  it  is,  they  are  all  humming 
one  another.  But  as  I  have  just  spun  out  my  turn, 
and  am,  at  present,  lying  still  on  my  side,  I  will  en 
deavour  to  do  as  those  do  who  think  to  make  amends 
for  spending  the  greater  part  of  life  in  a  round  of  folly, 
by  being  wFse  and  moralizing  for  the- little  time  they 
are  in  their  senses. 

You  were  a  great  reader  of  Doctor  Johnson,  in 
your  younger  days;  and  though  you  quarrelled  with 
many  of  his  criticisms,  you  were  less  qualified  in  your 
admiration  of  that  great  man,  I  believe,  than  you  are 
at  this  day.  I  cannot  say  that  time  has  had  the  same 
abating  influence  respecting  him  upon  me.  He  is  no 
less  frequently  in  my  thoughts,  than  formerly.  To 
this  circumstance  you  must  consider  yourself  indebted 
for  the  subject  of  the  present  letter,  and  thank  the 
Doctor  for  whatever  may  please  you  in  it;  for  I 
seldom  think  of  him,  without  calling  to  mind  his  love 
of  an  inn;  it  is  one  of  the  best-natured  traits  in  his 
character. 

There  certainly  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  a  man 
feels  so  independent  and  easy,  and  so  inclined  to  take 
clear  comfort.  It  is  equally  well  fitted  to  nearly  all  sorts 
of  characters.  The  blackguard  goes  to  it  to  lord  it  over 
his  own  gang,  put  the  host  in  good  humour,  have  full 
swing  amongst  the  grooms  and  waiters,  and  sharpen 


392  A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN, 

his  wits  upon  the  comers-in.  He  visits  it  nightly,  as 
much  for  his  improvement  in  his  calling,  as  for  his 
pleasure;  and  goes  home  as  satisfied  when  he  has 
done  well,  as  those  who  have  finished  more  serious 
duties  with  duller  heads.  The  humorist  may  have 
his  own  way  there,  and  the  surly  man  keep  his  corner, 
and  pass  himself  off  for  one  of  grave  taciturnity;  in 
short,  no  where  else  can  so  various  and  opposite  dis 
positions  herd  together,  with  so  little  annoyance  to 
each  other. 

It  is  the  world  in  little.  Men  of  all  sizes,  com 
plexions,  and  callings,  are  as  close  stowed  as  beasts 
at  a  cattle-show,  and  give  as  good  opportunity  to  ob 
serve  their  points  and  varieties.  Here  are  to  be  met 
with,  politicians,  who  never  had  place  or  pension, 
with  plans  to  keep  order  without  law  —  beaux  in  rusty 
hats,  and  coats  white  in  the  shoulders  —  gray-headed 
midshipmen  who  could  "sink  a  navy"  —  Laputa 
philosophers  —  hen-pecked  husbands,  venting  their 
lungs  and  spiriting  up  their  courage  —  quiet,  staid 
bachelors,  who  eat  and  drink  by  weight  and  measure, 
and  sleep  by  the  clock  —  the  dapper  gentleman, 
whose  unsoiled  suit  has  been  as  long  known  as  the 
wearer,  fresh  and  smooth  as  a  lady's-man  —  and  your 
swaggerer,  always  dirty,  and  always  rude.  Besides 
these,  and  many  more  in  contrast,  come  the  fillers-up 
of  society,  your  ordinary  men,  with  differences  so 
faintly  marked  that  it  is  quite  a  science,  and  an  ill-paid 
one,  to  trace  them  out. 

One  who  wishes  to  study  his  fellow-men  may  do  it 
here  and  save  himself  a  deal  of  travel.  He  has  noth 
ing  to  do  but  to  take  his  seat  snugly  in  a  corner,  and 
look  and  listen,  and  now  and  then  throw  in  a  remark 
in  way  of  suggestion,  just  to  see  what  it  will  come  to. — 


A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN.-  393 


Out  of  all  doubt,  it  is  a  situation  beet  fitted  to  that 
sort  of  men  who  keep  about  in  society  for  the  sale 
purpose  of  speculating  upon  human  nature.  Here 
they  find  every  one  off  his  guard;  and  they  them 
selves  are  not  kept  back  by  the  restraints  of  ceremony. 

One  of  these  observers  will  enter  a  room  of  motley 
company,  with  a  grave,  downward  aspect,  and  pace 
it  to  and  fro  with  a  measured  step,  as  if  lost  in  abstrac 
tion,  or  busy  about  some  embarrassing  circumstance. 
If  you  watch  him  narrowly,  you  will  presently  catch 
his  eye  scaling  along  over  the  group  of  talkers  you 
are  standing  amongst,  as  if  he  were  taking  note  of 
each  one  in  the  circle. 

I  dined  out  to-day,  and  told  our  old  friend,  Thom 
son,  I  would  meet  him  at  the  tavern,  that  he  might 
take  me  to  his  club  more  conveniently.  It  was  a  raw 
evening  after  a  warm  day,  a  time,  of  all  others,  when 
a  fire  is  most  cheering.  Each  one  drew  near  the  inn 
fire  with  open  hands;  and  rubbing  them  together  in  a 
kind  of  self-congratulatory  way,  with  a  working  of  the 
shoulders,  and  a  backward  throw  of  the  head,  was 
prepared  for  a  set-to  at  a  long  talk  upon  whatever 
was  going. 

I  was  sitting  in  an  old  round-a-bout  which  stood 
in  one  corner,  waiting  the  coming  of  my  friend,  with 
out  taking  any  part  in  the  conversation,  when  a  per 
son  like  one  I  have  just  before  described,  walked 
slowly  into  the  room.  He  was  past  the  middle  age, 
and  his  tailor  was  probably  as  old  as  himself,  for  his 
dark  drab  coat  was  of  the  fashion  of  some  twenty 
years  back.  There  was  a  staidness  in  his  manner,  as 
much  out  of  fashion  as  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  but  suit 
ing  well  with  the  strong  sagacity  of  his  countenance. 
The  nose  and  the  lines  from  it  expressed  sarcasm, 


394  A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN. 

which  was  tempered,  however,  by  a  playful  good 
nature  about  the  lips;  and  his  eyes  had  that  look  of 
inward  contemplation,  which  makes  the  finest  eyes  in 
the  world.  For  the  most  part,  there  was  a  rich  haze 
over  them;  but  when  they  turned  their  notice  out 
ward,  they  sent  forth  rays,  like  the  sun  bursting  through 
a  mist. 

The  expression  of  his  eyes  and  mouth  made  me  ob 
serve  him  more  closely,  and  with  a  good  degree  of 
interest.  For  it  is  not  often  that  we  meet  with  men 
who  pass  much  of  their  time  in  society,  only  because 
of  a  certain  talent  at  discriminating  and  observing, 
who  have  not  hard,  self- pleased  countenances,  show 
ing  a  sort  of  merry-making  out  of  the  weaknesses  of 
our  kind,  which  no  good  man  can  take  a  share  in. 
Yet  they  make  smooth  way  through  the  world.  It 
is  ten  to  one  that  he  whom  they  next  meet  with  is 
glad  of  a  laugh,  though  at  another's  cost;  beside, 
that  he  feels  safe  and  in  favour  while  under  the  wing 
of  one  of  these  world-wits.  They  know  full  well  that 
few  men  are  brave  enough  to  go  to  war  with  ridicule, 
and  that  as  few  will  put  themselves  at  risk  for  a  general 
principle. 

An  habitual,  close  observation  of  the  customs, 
manners,  and  characters  of  society,  will  beget  in  even 
the  best  men  a  relish  for  the  ridiculous.  It  is  past 
question  that  a  common-sense  man.  who  stands  by 
and  sees  how  much  folly  is  wrapt  snugly  up  in  cere 
mony —  how  much  pretence  covers  indifference,  and 
how  far,  even  among  the  knowing,  the  conventional 
passes  current  for  the  true — must  have  a  scorn  of  the 
foppery  with  which  the  plain  fact  of  life  is  so  fantasti 
cally  tricked  out. 

He,  then,  who  has    lived  long  among  men  as  a 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  395 

looker-on,  and  has  kept  his  exhorting  from  turning  to 
irony,  and  his  earnestness  to  indifference,  has  given  a 
thousand  fold  better  proof  of  sound  principle  and  a  tho 
roughly  good  heart,  than  he  who,  in  a  fancied  benevo 
lence  while  apart  from  the  world,  sees  nothing  but  the 
growth  of  virtue,  and  exalts  himself  in  lauding  his  spe 
cies.  Even  a  little  taunting  of  the  world  may  go  with  a 
right  love  of  it;  and  he  may  be  humble  under  his  own 
vices  who  rebukes  another's;  else  who  would  be  our 
censors  but  the  unkind,  or  our  teachers  but  the  proud? 
In  a  benevolent  heart,  our  very  frailties  beget  an 
anxiety  which  quickens  and  fills  out  the  growth  of  the 
affections;  and  the  keen  sighted  to  our  faults  are  not 
those  who  love  us  least,  or  are  most  blind  to  our 
virtues. 

These  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  rny  mind 
while  I  was  looking  upon  the  shrewd,  sarcastic,  be 
nevolent  face  before  me.  The  honest  owner  of  it 
soon  saw  that  I  was  observing  him;  and  whether  it 
was  that  he  perceived  any  expression  in  mine  that 
pleased  him,  or  that  he  was  inclined  to  sift  me,  I 
cannot  tell,  (I  rather  think  there  was  a  sympathy 
between  us  ;)  after  traversing  the  room  once  or 
twice  more,  he  made  his  way  next  to  me  into  the  cir 
cle.  Taking  up  the  poker,  and  passing  it  between 
the  bars  in  the  same  deliberate  manner  as  Vicar 
Primrose  did,  when  about  upsetting  his  daughters' 
washes —  "  What  companionable,  talkative  creatures 
a  brisk  fire  makes  folks  of  a  dull  day,"  said  he.  This 
was  spoken  in  that  low  tone,  and  half  soliloquizing 
manner,  in  which  one  utters  himself,  who  wishes  to 
bring  on  a  conversation  with  his  next  neighbour,  yet 
does  not  feel  at  liberty  to  do  it  by  way  of  direct  ad 
dress,  and,  so,  throws  out  a  remark  for  him  to  take 
up  or  not,  as  he  pleases. 


396  A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  turning  toward  the  fire,  too; 
"  they  cluster  together  with  spirits  as  much  astir,  as 
flies  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  tree,  of  a  frosty  morning." 

Putting  down  the  poker  and  straightening  himself 
up,  he  looked  at  me  with  a  sociable  expression  of 
face,  as  if  we  understood  each  other  perfectly  well; 
and  drawing  a  chair  into  the  circle,  said,  as  he  set 
himself  down  by  me,  —  "You  are  from  the  country, 
Sir,  I  presume?" 

"  I  am  so.  I  come  to  town,  now  and  then,  to  see 
an  old  friend,  and  to  give  my  faculties  a  jog  in  the 
crowd." 

"  Two  very  good  reasons,"  he  remarked.  "And 
may  I  ask,  without  being  impertinent,  whether  you 
have  two  more  as  good  for  making  the  country  your 
home?" 

"I  prefer  the  country,  inasmuch  as  a  man  sees 
there  less  of  the  frivolities  of  his  species,  and  more  of 
nature,  than  in  town,  and  stands  a  better  chance  to 
have  a  more  equable  temper,  and  a  more  independent 
turn  of  mind." 

"  True,"  he  answered.  "  The  flies  you  just  now 
spoke  of  will  never  let  a  man  into  their  little  vanities, 
impertinencies,  and  enmities,  however  long  he  may 
stand,  feeling  his  heart  fill  with  gladness  and  good 
will,  while  looking  on  so  much  of  the  enjoyment  which 
God  gives  to  all  creatures." 

"  That  is  from  no  want  of  honesty  in  them,"  said 
I.  "  They  would  not  lie  to  us,  could  we  understand 
their  language.  They  do  not  keep  two  characters  on 
hand,  the  one  bad,  the  other  good,  like  a  man  with 
his  home  coat  and  another  for  visiting.  I  could  be 
tolerably  well  content  with  the  world,  bad  as  it  is, 
would  men  but  show  themselves  a  little  more  plainly." 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN. 


397 


"  The  difficulty  in  knowing  men,"  he  replied, "  arises 
not  only  from  a  design  in  them  to  deceive  us,  but  also 
from  a  proneness  to  deceive  themselves.     Now,  look 
you  round,"  said  he,  with  a  half  good-natured,  half 
sarcastic  smile,  as  he  gave  a  side-glance  at  the  com 
pany,   "upon  any  dozen  of  men  you  may    happen 
amongst,  and  it  is  odds  but  you  will  find  that  ten  of 
them  have  been  all  their  lives  industriously  making 
up  for  themselves  false  characters,  have  thrown  away 
what  belonged  to  them,  and  might  have  done  good 
service,  to  put  on  that  which  perhaps  was  well  enough 
in  itself,  but  has  become  fantastical  and  absurd,  be 
cause  it  fits  ill  and  is  out  of  place.     This  lost  labour 
is  sometimes  from  self-ignorance,  but  as  often,  to  be 
sure,  from  want  of  thorough  honesty.     The  best  of  us 
begin  with  cheating  the  world  more  or  less,  and  end, 
for  the  most  part,  our  own  dupes." 

< 'The  world  is  perpetually  struggling  against  na 
ture,"  said  T.  "  Who  stops  to  consider,  that  indivi 
dual  peculiarities  of  mind  and  manner  are  not  to  be 
changed,  without  making  an  inconsistency  of  the 
parts  taken  together?  " 

"You  are  right,"  he  answered.  "  Every  man  has, 
by  nature,  his  peculiar  manner,  and  certain  modes  of 
expression,  and  motions  of  the  body  proper  to  himself. 
No  one  is,  perhaps,  free  from  little  awkwardnesses, 
as  they  are  called,  of  one  kind  or  another.  Now, 
though  these  are  not  well  in  themselves,  yet,  con 
sidered  in  their  relations,  there  is  a  fitness  in  them 
which  makes  them  even  agreeable  to  a  discerning 
man.  They  are,  in  general,  in  harmony  with  the 
structure  of  the  body,  but,  what  is  better,  they  are 
so  many  honest  indications  of  a  man's  mind  and  dis 
position,  which  are  continually  coming  from  him,  and 


398 


A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN. 


laying  his  character  open  to  us,  without  his  observing 
them.     They  are,  in  some  sort,  a  part  of  the  very  con 
stitution  of  the  being  they  belong  to,  and  so  intimately 
connected  with  his  thoughts  and  feelings,  that  he  will 
find  it  hard  to  rid  himself  of  them  without  injuring  the 
mind  itself.     He  will  be  instantly  put  into   a  forced 
state  by  so  doing,   carrying  on  a  double  operation, 
and  working  under  rule,  for  life.     For,  after  all,  he 
will  never  be  able  to  make  it  to   himself  so  much  a 
habit,  as  to  forget  his  fashion  of  doing  a  thing,  in  his 
concern  for  what  he  does.     In  this  way,   he   will  for 
ever  be  putting  teasing  checks  upon  the  free  play  of 
his    ordinary    feelings,   and  breaking  up  the  simple 
movements   of  his  impulses.     And,  so,  he  will  lose 
his  credit  with  the  world  even  for  the  little  sincerity 
that  he  has  left  to  himself,  and  fail,  in  the  end,  of  his 
effect,    from    his    too    great    anxiety  about  it.      My 
dear  sir."  said  he  abruptly,   "did  you,   for  instance, 
ever  see  a  perfectly  graceful  speaker,   as  the  ladies 
would  call  him,  without  being  heartily  tired  of  him 
after  twice  or  thrice  hearing  him? " 

"  No,"  answered  I ;  "your  elegant  speakers  are 
very  much  like  your  Blair  writers;  there  is  no  fault 
to  find  with  them,  only  that  we  are  soon  weary  of 
them  both." 

"  They  always  affect  me  in  the  same  way,"  he  re 
plied.  :<  Nor  can  I  call  to  mind  a  man  who  has  made 
himself  felt  after  being  heard  many  times,  who,  either 
from  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  some  gesture  pro 
per  enough  in  itself,  perhaps,  or  from  some  very  odd 
one,  has  not  set  all  rules  of  gesticulation  at  defiance. 
The  most  stirring  speaker  I  ever  heard  was  remark 
able  for  a  very  singular  motion  of  the  hand;  yet  it 
was  natural  to  him,  and  always  produced  an  effect; 


A    LETTER    FROM   TOWN.  399 

and  I  never  remember  it  without  a  kind  of  delight, 
and  free  from  any  thing  of  the  ludicrous.  A  man 
should  take  care  how  he  new-models  his  manner;  for 
unless  he  is  peculiarly  fortunate,  the  chance  is  that 
he  will  cast  off  what  we  could  very  well  put  up  with, 
fancying  to  himself  that  he  is  about  delighting  us 
with  what,  in  truth,  we  shall  never  tolerate:  A  bad 
natural  manner  is  bad  enough,  but  a  bad  artificial  one 
is  abominable." 

"There  are  certain  ungainly  tricks  of  the  body," 
I  replied,  "generally,  however,  proceeding  from  an 
embarrassed  mind;  but  the  worst  of  them  never  make 
a  man  half  so  ridiculous,  as  is  the  awkward  man  who 
puts  himself  to  school  to  the  graces.  The  most  re 
markable  thing  about  the  latter  will  be  a  stiff  sort  of 
motion,  aiming  at  ease,  arid  a  clumsy  endeavour  after 
elegance.  There  are  others,  of  a  happy  temperament 
and  a  suppleness  of  the  body,  who  undertake  to  refine 
upon  what  nature  has  done  for  them,  and,  so,  part 
with  that  which  made  every  one  pleased  and  at  home, 
not  knowing  why,  to  take  up  with  obtrusive  graces 
and  impertinent  grimace ;  and,  thus,  they  turn  their 
manners  into  forms  and  dresses,  instead  of  leaving 
them  the  mere  representatives  of  a  polite, well-ordered 
mind." 

"Very  true,"  said  my  new  acquaintance;  "  and  if 
the  mind  is  well  improved,  and  right  feelings  brought 
forward,  what  we  call  the  manners  will  take  care  of 
themselves.  Make  it  a  child's  main  principle  to  love 
the  truth  and  always  hold  to  it,  and  he  will  have  an 
open  and  manly  decision  of  manner,  which  will  clear 
his  way  for  him  wherever  he  goes.  Give  him  a  taste 
ful  mind,  and  there  will  be  beautiful  emanations  from 
it  playing  about  him,  even  on  ordinary  occasions. 


400  A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN. 

Teach  him  that  selfishness  defeats  its  own  purposes, 
and  makes  the  most  polite  sometimes  vulgar;  that  in 
common  intercourse  he  is  to  be  more  mindful  of 
others  than  of  himself,  that  he  is  not  to  press  hard 
his  own  tastes  and  opinions,  till  they  give  uneasiness; 
that  it  is  best  to  find  out  the  bent  of  another's  feelings, 
and  not  cross  it,  except  where  it  is  at  variance  with 
the  truth;  that  he  is  rather  to  talk  upon  what  his  com 
panions  are  familiar  with,  than  unfeelingly  to  parade 
before  their  ignorance  a  show  of  what  he  himself 
knows;  that,  unless  some  occasion  calls  fork,  he  is  not 
to  keep  ahead  of  those  he  is  with,  instead  of  wralking 
by  their  side;  that  his  principal  object  should  be  fo 
produce  a  good  and  happy  state  of  things  wherever 
he  goes,  and  that  in  this  way  he  will  make  sure  his 
own  satisfying  enjoyments,  without  the  mortifying 
sense  of  a  selfish  aim  —  and  you  will  do  more,  upon 
these  few,  simple  principles,  to  make  a  thorough  gen 
tleman,  than  all  the  pedantry  of  polite  education,  than 
all  the  outside  endeavours  of  the  professors  and  schol 
ars  of  elegant  accomplishments  could  ever  teach  or 
comprehend." 

This  may  sound  a  little  climacteric  to  you,  my  dear 
friend;  but  coming  from  a  thoughtful  man,  past  middle 
life,  who  had  not  lost  his  feelings  with  his  hairs,  it 
took  hold  of  me  from  its  simple  earnestness;  and  more 
so,  as  I  marked  in  his  face  the  play  of  his  feelings 
growing  stronger  and  quicker  as  he  went  on,  and  a 
flush  of  excitement  spreading  gradually  over  his  pale 
countenance. 

He  paused  and  looked  down  for  a  moment,  as  if 
sensible  that  his  zeal  had  led  him  into  something  like 
an  harangue,  and  to  take  more  to  himself  than  a  well- 
bred  man  should  ordinarily  do,  especially  when  with  a 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  401 

stranger.  The  feeling  and  delicate  embarrassment  of 
his  manner  moved  me  a  good  deal,  particularly  when  I 
considered  that  it  was  shown  toward  one  younger  than 
himself. 

More  to  relieve  him,  than  from  any  wish  to  talk, 
(for  I  had  much  rather  have  listened  to  him,)  I  began 
saying  something  about  the  tiresome  sameness  of  what 
is  called  high  life  in  a  city.  He  raised  his  head  a 
little,  and  turning  toward  rne  with  a  smile,  looked  at 
me  as  if  he  thanked  me.  This  put  me  off  again  from 
what  I  was  about  remarking,  and  I  was  never  more 
glad  in  my  life,  than  when  I  saw  my  friend,  Thomson, 
coming  in  at  the  door  to  relieve  me  from  my  uneasy 
sensations.  There  was  something  very  delightful  in 
them  too,  notwithstanding;  and  when  my  friend  in 
troduced  me  to  the  stranger  as  an  old  and  particular 
acquaintance  of  his,  and  I  took  his  extended  hand,  we 
were  better  known  to  each  other,  than  most  of  those 
who  have  lived  next  door  neighbours  for  some  dozen 
years. 

It  was  quite  time  to  join  the  club.  My  new  ac 
quaintance,  Mr.  Thornton,  turning  out  to  be  a  mem 
ber  as  well  as  my  friend,  we  walked  in  sociably 
together. 

In  my  next,  I  hope  to  send  you  some  account  of 
the  club;  though  this  is  quite  uncertain,  as  the  spirit 
of  order  bears  as  little  rule  over  me  at  present  as  it 
does  over  the  place  I  am  in;  besides,  I  may  meet  with 
something,  if  not  more  worthy  of  your  attention,  more 
amusing,  perhaps.  Yours, 

A.  B. 

26 


MUSINGS. 


—  "  a  steadfast  seat 

Shall  then  be  your's  among  the  happy  few 
Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air, 
Sons  of  the  morning.  — 

—  He  sate  —  and  talked 

With  winged  messengers  ;  who  daily  brought 
To  his  small  Island  in  the  ethereal  deep 
Tidings  of  joy  and  love. 

—  then,  my  Spirit  was  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 

The  measure  of  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss, 
And  holiest  love  ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 
With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence." 

WORDSWORTH, 


HAVE  we  looked  upon  the  earth  so  long,  only  to 
reckon  how  many  men  and  beasts  it  can  maintain, 
and  to  see  to  what  account  its  timber  can  be  turned, 
and  to  what  uses  its  rocks  and  waters  may  be  put? 
Do  we,  with  Baillie  Jarvie,  think  it  a  pity  that  so 
much  good  soil  should  lie  waste  under  a  useless  lake> 
and  set  against  the  cost  of  draining  the  in-comings  of 
the  crops?  Have  we  lived  so  many  years  in  the  world 
and  been  familiar  with  its  affairs,  only  to  part  off  men 
into  professions  and  trades,  and  to  tell  the  due  pro 
portions  required  to  stock  each?  Must  we  for  ever 
travel  the  straight-forward,  turnpike  road  of  business. 


MUSINGS.  403 

and  not  be  left  to  take  the  way  that  winds  round  the 
meadows,  and  leads  us  sociably  by  the  doors  of  retired 
farms?  Must  all  the  hills  be  levelled,  and  hollows 
filled  up,  that  we  may  go  like  draught-horses  the  dull 
and  even  road  of  labour,  the  easier  and  with  the  more 
speed?  May  we  not  sit  awhile  to  cool  and  rest  our 
selves  in  the  shade  of  some  shut-in  valley,  with  its 
talking  rills,  and  fresh  and  silent  water-plants,  —  or 
pass  over  the  free  and  lit  hill-tops,  catching  views  of 
the  broad,  open  country  alive  with  the  universal 
growth  of  things,  and  guarded  with  its  band  of  moun 
tains  resting  in  the  distance,  like  patriarchs  of  the 
earth?  Must  all  we  do  and  all  we  think  about  have 
reference  to  the  useful,  while  that  alone  is  considered 
useful  which  is  tangible,  present  gain?  Is  it  for  food, 
and  raiment,  and  shelter  alone,  that  we  came  into  the 
world?  Do  we  talk  of  our  souls,  and  live  as  if  we, 
and  all  that  surrounded  us,  were  made  up  of  nothing 
else  but  dull  matter?  Are  the  relations  of  life  for  our 
convenience  merely,  or  has  the  fulfilling  of  their 
duties  none  but  promised  and  distant  rewards? 

Man  has  another  and  higher  nature  even  here; 
and  the  spirit  within  him  finds  an  answering  spirit  in 
every  thing  that  grows,  and  affectionate  relations  not 
only  with  his  fellow-man,  but  with  the  commonest 
things  that  lie  scattered  about  the  earth. 

To  the  man  of  fine  feeling,  and  deep  and  delicate 
and  creative  thought,  there  is  nothing  in  nature  which 
appears  only  as  so  much  substance  and  form,  nor  any 
connexions  in  life  which  do  not  reach  beyond  their 
immediate  and  obvious  purposes.  Our  attachments 
to  each  other  are  not  felt  by  him  merely  as  habits  of 
the  mind  given  to  it  by  the  customs  of  life;  nor  does 
he  hold  them  to  be  only  as  the  goods  of  this  world, 


404  MUSINGS. 

and  the  loss  of  them  as  merely  turning  him  forth  an 
outcast  from  the  social  state;  but  they  are  a  part  of 
his  joyous  being,  and  to  have  them  torn  from  him,  is 
taking  from  his  very  nature. 

Life,  indeed,  with  him,  in  all  its  connexions  and 
concerns,  has  an  ideal  and  spiritual  character,  which, 
while  it  loses  nothing  of  the  definiteness  of  reality,  is 
for  ever  suggesting  thoughts,  taking  new  relations, 
and  peopling  and  giving  action  to  the  imagination. 
All  that  the  eye  falls  upon  and  all  that  touches  the 
heart,  run  off  into  airy  distance,  and  the  regions  into 
which  the  sight  stretches,  are  alive  and  bright  and 
beautiful  with  countless  shapings  and  fair  hues  of  the 
gladdened  fancy.  From  kind  acts  and  gentle  words 
and  fond  looks  there  spring  hosts  many  and  glorious 
as  Milton's  angels;  and  heavenly  deeds  are  done, 
and  unearthly  voices  heard,  and  forms  and  faces, 
graceful  and  lovely  as  Uriel's,  are  seen  in  the  noon 
day  sun.  What  would  only  have  given  pleasure  for 
the  time  to  another,  or  at  most,  be  now  and  then 
called  up  in  his  memory,  in  the  man  of  feeling  and 
imagination,  lays  by  its  particular  and  short-lived  and 
irregular  nature,  and  puts  on  the  garments  of  spiritual 
beings,  and  takes  the  everlasting  nature  of  the  soul. 
The  ordinary  acts  which  spring  from  the  good  will  of 
social  life,  take  up  their  dwelling  within  him  and 
mingle  with  his  sentiment,  forming  a  little  society  in 
his  mind,  going  on  in  harmony  with  its  generous  en 
terprises,  its  friendly  labours,  and  tasteful  pursuits. 
They  undergo  a  change,  becoming  a  portion  of  him, 
making  a  part  of  his  secret  joy  and  melancholy, 
and  wandering  at  large  among  his  far-off  thoughts. 
All  that  his  mind  falls  in  with,  it  sweeps  along  in  its 
deep  and  swift  and  continuous  flow,  and  bears  onward 


MUSINGS.  405 

\vith  the  multitude,  that  fills  its  shoreless  and  living 
sea. 

So  universal  is  this  operation  in  such  a  man,  and  so 
instantly   does  it   act  upon  whatever  he  is  concerned 
about,    that  a  double  process  is  going  on  within  him, 
and  he  lives,   as  it  were,    a  two-fold  life.     Is  he,  for 
instance,  talking  with  you  about  a  North-west  pas 
sage,  he  is  looking  far  off  at  the  ice-islands,  with  their 
turreted   castles  and   fairy    towns,  or  at  the  penguin, 
at  the  southern  pole,  pecking  the  rotting  seaweed   on 
which  she  has  lighted,  or  he  is  listening  to  her  distant 
and  lonely  cry,   within  the   cold  and  barren  tracts  of 
ice  —  yet   all  the     while   he   reasons  as    ingeniously 
and    wisely    as    you.     His    attachments  do  not  grow 
about   a  changeless   and  tiring  object;  but  be  it  filial 
reverence,  Abraham  is  seen  sitting  at  the  door  of  his 
tent,  and  the  earth  is  one  green  pasture  for  flocks  and 
herds;  or    be  it  love,  she   who  is  dear  to  him  is  seen 
in  a  thousand  imaginary   changes  of  situation,    and 
new  incidents  are  happening,  delighting  his  mind  with 
all  the  distinctness   and  sincerity  of  truth.     So  that 
while  he  is  in  the  midst  of  men,  and  doing  his  part  in 
the  affairs  of  the  world,  his  spirit   has  called  up  a  fairy 
vision,    and  he   is  walking  in  a  lovely  dream:  —  it  is 
round  about  him  in  his  sorrows  for  a  consolation;  and 
out  of  the  gloom  of  his  affliction  he  looks  forth  upon 
an  horizon  touched  with  a  gentle,  morning  twilight, 
and   growing   brighter  on  his  gaze.     Through   pain 
and  poverty  and  the  world's  neglect,  when  men  look 
cold  upon  him,  and  his  friends  are  gone,  he  has  where 
to  rest  a  tired  spirit,  that   others  know  not  of,  and 

healings  for  a  wounded  mind,  which  others  can  never 

feel. 

And  who  is  of  so  hard  a  nature  that  he  would  deny 


406  MUSINGS. 

him  these?  If  there  are  assuagings  for  his  spirit, 
which  are  never  ministered  to  other  men,  it  has  tor 
tures  and  griefs  and  a  fearful  melancholy,  which  need 
them  more.  He  brought  into  the  world  passions  deep 
and  strong,  senses  tremulous  and  thrilling  at  every 
touch,  feelings  delicate  and  shy,  yet  affectionate  and 
warm,  and  an  ardent  and  romantic  mind.  He  has 
dwelt  upon  the  refinements  and  virtues  of  our  nature, 
till  they  have  almost  become  beauties  sensible  to  the 
mortal  eye,  and  to  worship  them  he  has  thought  could 
hardly  be  idolatry. 

And  what  does  he  find  in  the  world?  Perhaps,  in 
all  the  multitude,  he  meets  a  mind  or  two  which  an 
swers  to  his  own;  but  through  the  crowd,  where  he 
looks  for  the  free  play  of  noble  passions,  he  finds  men 
eager  after  gain  or  vulgar  distinctions,  hardening  the 
heart  with  avarice,  or  making  it  proud  and  reckless 
with  ambition.  Does  he  speak  with  an  honest  indig 
nation  against  oppression  and  trick?  He  is  met  by 
loose  doubts  and  shallow  speculations,  or  teasing 
questions  as  to  right  and  wrong.  Are  the  weak  to  be 
defended,  or  strong  opposed?  One  man  has  his  place 
yet  to  reach,  and  another  his  to  maintain,  and  why 
should  they  put  all  at  stake?  Are  others  at  work  in  a 
good  cause  ?  They  are  so  little  scrupulous  about  means, 
so  bustling  and  ostentatious  and  full  of  self,  so  wrapt 
about  in  solemn  vanity,  that  he  is  ready  to  turn  from 
them  and  their  cause  in  disgust.  There  is  so  little 
of  nature  and  sincerity  —  of  ardor  and  sentiment  of 
character  —  such  a  dulness  of  perception  —  such  a 
want  of  that  enthusiasm  for  all  that  is  great  and  lovely 
and  true,  (which,  while  it  makes  us  forgetful  of  our 
selves,  brings  with  it  our  highest  enjoyments)  such 
an  offensive  show  and  talk  of  factitious  sensibility  — 


MUSINGS. 


407 


that  the  current  of  his  feelings  is  checked  —  he  turns 
away  depressed  and  disappointed,  and  becomes  shut  up 
in  himself;  and  he,  whose  mind  is  all  emotion,  and 
who  loves  with  a  depth  of  feeling  that  few  souls  have 
ever  sounded,  is  pointed  at,  as  he  stands  aloof  from 
men,  as  a  creature  cold  and  motionless,  selfish  and 
reserved. 

But  if  manner  too  often  goes  for  character,  hard- 
learned  rules  for  native  taste,  fastidiousness  for  refine 
ment,   ostentation  for  dignity,   cunning   for  wisdom, 
timidity  for  prudence,  and  nervous  affections  for  ten 
derness  of  heart,—  if  the  order  of  nature  be  so  much 
reversed,  and  semblance  so  often  takes  precedence  of 
truth,  yet  it  is  not  so  in  all  things,   nor  wholly   so   in 
any.     The  cruel  and  ambitious  have  touches  of  pity 
and  remorse,  and  good  affections  are  mingled  with  our 
frailties.     Amid  the  press   of  selfish   aims,   generous 
ardor  is    seen   lighting  up,  and  in  the  tumultuous  and 
heedless  bustle  of  the  world,  we  here  and  there  meet 
with  considerate  thought  and  quiet  and  deep  affections. 
Patient  endurance   of  sufferings,   bold  resistance   of 
power,  forgiveness  of  injuries,  hard-tried  and  faithful 
friendship,  and  self-sacrificing  love,  are  seen  in  beau 
tiful  relief  over  the  flat  uniformity  of  life,  or  stand  out 
in  steady  and  bright  grandeur  in  the  midst  of  the  dark 
deeds  of  men.     And  then,    again,    the    vices    of  our 
nature  are   sometimes  revealed   with   a   violence    of 
passion  and  a  terrible  intellectual  energy,  which  fasten  ! 
on  the  imagination  of  a  creative  and  high  mind,  while  j 
they   call  out  opposing  virtues  to  pass  before  it  in 
visions  of  glory: — »For  "  there  is  a  soul  of  goodness 
in  things  evil;  "  and  the  crimes  of  men  have  brought 
forth  deeds  of  heroism  and  sustaining  faith,  that  have 
made  our  rapt  fancies  but  gatherings  from  the  world 
in  which  we  live. 


408  MUSINGS. 

And  there  are  beautiful  souls,  too,  in  the  world,  to 
hold  kindred  with  a  man  of  a  feeling  and  refined  mind  ; 
and  there  are  delicate  and  warm  and  simple  affections, 
that  now  and  then  meet  him  on  his  way,  and  enter 
silently  into  his  heart  like  blessings.  Here  and  there, 
on  the  road,  go  with  him  for  a  time  some  who  call  to 
mind  the  images  of  his  soul,  —  a  voice,  or  a  look,  is  a 
remembrancer  of  past  visions,  and  breaks  out  upon 
him  like  openings  through  the  clouds;  and  the  distant 
beings  of  his  imagination  seem  walking  by  his  side, 
and  the  changing  and  unsubstantial  creatures  of  the 
brain  put  on  body  and  life.  In  such  moments  his 
fancies  are  turned  to  realities,  and  over  the  real  the 
lights  of  his  mind  shift  and  play ;  his  imagination  shines 
out  warm  upon  it,  and  it  changes,  and  takes  the  fresh 
ness  of  fairy  life. 

When  such  an  one  turns  away  from  men,  and  is 
left  alone  in  silent  communion  with  nature  and  his 
own  thoughts,  and  there  are  no  bonds  on  the  move 
ments  of  the  feelings,  and  nothing  on  which  he  would 
shut  his  eyes,  but  God's  own  hand  has  made  all 
before  him  as  it  is,  he  feels  his  spirit  opening  upon  a 
new  existence,  becoming  as  broad  as  the  sun  and  air, 
as  various  as  the  earth,  over  which  it  spreads  itself, 
and  touched  with  that  love  which  God  has  imaged  in 
all  he  has  formed.  His  senses  take  a  quicker  life, 
and  become  one  refined  and  exquisite  emotion;  and 
the  etherealized  body  is  made,  as  it  were,  a  spirit  in 
bliss.  His  soul  grows  stronger  and  more  active  within 
him,  as  he  sees  life  intense  and  working  throughout 
nature;  and  that  which  is  passing  away  links  itself 
with  the  eternal,  when  he  finds  new  life  beginning 
even  with  decay,  and  hastening  to  put  forth  in  some 
other  form  of  beauty,  and  become  a  sharer  in  some 


MUSINGS. 


409 


new  delight.  His  spirit  is  ever  awake  with  happy 
sensations,  and  cheerful  and  innocent  and  easy 
thoughts.  Soul  and  body  are  blending  into  one;  the 
senses  and  thoughts  mix  in  one  delight;  he  sees  a 
universe  of  order  and  beauty,  and  joy  and  life,  of 
which  he  becomes  a  part,  and  finds  himself  carried 
along  in  the  eternal  going-on  of  nature.  Sudden  and 
short-lived  passions  of  men  take  no  hold  upon  him; 
for  he  has  sat  in  holy  thought  by  the  roar  and  hurry 
of  the  stream,  which  has  rushed  on  from  the  beginning 
of  things ;  and  he  is  quiet  in  the  tumult  of  the  multitude, 
for  he  has  watched  the  tracery  of  leaves  playing  safely 
over  the  foam. 

The  innocent  face  of  nature  gives  him  an  open  and 
fair  mind;  pain  and  death  seem  passing  away,  for  all 
about  him  is  cheerful  and  in  its  spring.  His  virtues 
are  not  taught  him  as  lessons,  but  are  shed  upon  him 
and  enter  into  him  like  the  light  and  warmth  of  the 
sun;  and  amidst  the  variety  of  the  earth,  he  sees  a 
fitness,  which  frees  him  from  the  formalities  of  rule, 
and  lets  him  abroad,  to  find  a  pleasure  in  all  things; 
and  order  becomes  a  simple  feeling  of  the  soul. 

Religion,  to  such  an  one,  has  thoughts  and  visions 
and  sensations,  tinged,  as  it  were,  with  a  holier  and 
brighter  light  than  falls  on  other  men.  The  love  and 
reverence  of  the  Creator  make  their  abode  in  his 
imagination,  and  he  gathers  about  them  earth  and 
air  and  ideal  worlds.  His  heart  is  made  glad  with 
the  perfectness  in  the  works  of  God,  when  he  con 
siders  that  even  of  the  multitude  of  things  that  are 
growing  up  and  decaying,  and  of  those  which  have 
come  and  gone,  on  which  the  eye  of  man  has  never 
rested,  each  was  as  fair  and  complete  as  if  made  to 
live  for  ever  for  our  instruction  and  delight. 


410 


MUSINGS. 


Freedom  and  order,  and  beauty  and  grandeur,  are 
in  accordance  in  his  mind,  and  give  largeness  and 
height  to  his  thoughts;  he  moves  among  the  bright 
clouds;  he  wanders  away  into  the  measureless  depths 
of  the  stars,  and  is  touched  by  the  fire  with  which 
God  has  lighted  them  —  all  that  is  made  partakes  of 
the  eternal,  and  religion  becomes  a  perpetual  pleas 
ure. 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN. 


"  Not  moved  a  whit, 
Constant  to  lightness  still  !  " 
"  You  're  fur  mirth 
Or  I  mistake  you  much." 

The  Old  Law. 

"  E  'en  such  a  man,  so  faint,  so  spiritless, 
So  dull,  so  dead  in  look,  so  wo-begone,"  - 
Henry  IV. 


IN  the  first  letter  which  I  wrote  you  from  town,  I 
spoke  of  our  old  friend's  taking  me  with  him  to  his  club. 
As  we  entered  late,  and  a  good  part  of  the  mem 
bers  could  be  seen  but  dimly  through  the  cigar-smoke, 
I  shall  put  off  a  general  description  of  their  persons, 
till  I  get  a  view  of  them  in  a  clear  atmosphere.  Be 
sides,  while  it  is  fresh  in  my  mind,  I  wish  to  give  you 
the  latter  part  of  a  dialogue,  which  was  going  on,  as 
we  entered,  between  a  snug-built,  well-dressed,  fresh- 
looking  man  of  about  five  and  forty,  and  another  of 
nearly  the  same  age,  I  arn  told — but,  apparently,  ten 
years  older  —  of  a  thin  visage  and  spare  frame,  with 
an  impatient  hurry  in  his  speech,  followed  by  a 
whining  drawl;  and  to  set  his  figure  off  the  better,  I 
suppose,  he  was  clad  in  a  mixed-gray  suit,  with  black 
buttons.  He  nestled  about  in  his  seat,  with  a  fidgety 
motion,  and  there  was  a  nervous  twitching  of  the  eye- 


412  A    LETTER  FROM    TOWN. 

lids,  and  a  restlessness  in  the  eye,  though  he  was  all 
the  while  looking  at  one  object,  very  much  as  folks  do 
when  repeating  from  memory.  The  first  gentleman, 
who  seemed  to  have  most  of  the  talk  to  himself,  was 
going  on  thus,  as  we  drew  near  them  — 

11  There  is  no  telling  how  large  a  pack  of  troubles 
a  man  may  have  upon  his  shoulders  at  the  end  of  life, 
who  keeps  it  always  open  like  an  alms-basket,  and 
has  no  hole  at  bottom  to  let  out  a  little  of  what  he 
takes  in.  He  need  not  ape  a  lame  leg  or  a  broken 
back.  If  he  keeps  his  wallet  stufled  with  odd  scraps 
of  bad  meat  and  mouldy  bread,  when  he  can  get 
better,  for  the  sake  of  groaning  over  his  hard  fare,  he 
will  go  doubled  and  limping  to  his  grave,  in  good 
earnest." 

"  A  pleasant  fellow,  you,  Tom,  with  a  nosegay  in 
your  button-hole,  and  snuff  between  finger  and  thumb, 
who  never  found  it  too  cold  without-doors,  nor  too  hot 
within.  You  go  as  gay  as  an  ostrich,  and  with  not 
a  whit  more  thought  neither." 

"kl  've  done  my  part,  Abraham,  and  it  is  my  wife's 
duty  to  look  at  things  at  home,  and  to  keep  the  chil 
dren  out  of  the  fire,  or  cure  them  when  they  get  in. 
Besides,  I  never  saw  any  good  come  of  too  much  care 
of  the  brats,  —  it  only  makes  them  helpless.  And  if 
all 's  at  sixes  and  sevens  at  home,  and  my  mate's  voice 
and  face  grow  sharp  and  angry,  I  come  and  take  heart 
at  the  sound  and  sight  of  your  clear  voice  and  gay 
countenance,  over  a  bottle  of  the  best." 

Abraham  did  not  much  like  this  taunt  at  his  com 
plainings;  and  his  cheek  began  to  kindle  and  grow 
redder  and  redder  in  spots,  the  louder  arid  longer  Tom 
laughed.  Torn  seemed  to  care  little  for  this,  so  it  did 

O 

but  put  a  stop  to  the  drone-pipe  which  Abraham  was 


A    LETTER   FROM   TOWN.  413 

said  to  play  upon,  whenever  he  came  to  the  club  to 
have  a  merry  night  of  it. 

"  No  surer  cure  for  our  troubles,  Abraham,"  says 
he,  "than  to  get  into  arousing  passion;  and  you 
have  not  a  better  friend  in  the  world  than  I,  who  am 
always  helping  you  into  one.  Why,  you  would  have 
gone  all  night  like  an  ill-greased  wheel,  spoke  follow 
ing  up  and  down  after  spoke  to  the  melancholy  creak 
ing,  hadn't  I  vexed  you.  Now,  we  shall  see  you  in  a 
fine  whirl  presently,  striking  fire  out  of  every  stone 
you  hit  against.  Don't  you  remember  how  sad  you 
were  a  half-score  years  ago,  because  the  gout  would  n't 
carry  off  your  uncle;  and  when  it  did  the  business  for 
him,  and  took  you  softly  by  the  toe,  only  to  tell  you 
of  it,  how  wo-begone  you  looked,  just  as  if  your  mourn 
ing  suit  was  to  be  handed  over  to  your  man  John,  to 
appear  respectably  in  at  his  master's  funeral?  Yet 
you  got  here  to-night  without  halting;  and  if  you 
do  n't  make  your  way  home  as  quick  as  the  rest 
of  us,  it  will  not  be  the  gout  that  will  hinder  you." 

Abraham  had  three  charges  to  answer  to  —  his 
complaining  disposition,  his  eagerness  for  his  uncle's 
death,  and  an  over-fondness  for  good  wine.  Now, 
whether  it  was  his  anger  that  made  him  take  up  the 
last  word,  as  is  generally  the  way  with  a  man  in  a 
passion,  or  that  the  two  first  charges  were  not  to  be 
denied,  Abraham  chose  to  clear  himself  of  the  last, 
and  to  have  his  revenge  on  Tom,  by  railing  against 
a  weakness,  which  he  himself  was  kept  from  by  at 
least  as  great  failings.  He  knew  the  cost  of  his  liquor, 
and  that  too  much  wine  helped  to  rid  him  of  his  uncle, 
and  Abraham  was  said  to  be  both  a  miser  and  a  cow 
ard. 

"  Have  you  no  shame  in  you,   Tom,  that  you  will 


414  A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN. 

be  talking  of  drinking  ?  Do  n't  you  remember  the 
snake-track  you  made  back  the  very  last  night  you 
were  here?  And  by  the  going  of  your  clapper,  and 
the  shine  of  your  eye,  you  bid  fair  now  to  get  home 
again  the  same  way.  When  have  you  seen  me  make 
such  a  beast  of  myself  as  to  hold  up  by  my  neighbour's 
knocker  instead  of  my  own?  I  set  my  children  a 
better  example,  teach  them  to  strive  against  tempta 
tion,  and  to  keep  a  watch  upon  any  besetting  sin.  I 
tell  them  that  life  is  a  state  of  trial  and  affliction  — 
that  if  they  have  riches  and  blessings  to-day,  they  may 
be  all  gone  to-morrow — that  though  they  are  now  in 
health,  sickness  is  nigh  at  hand,  and  that  death  may 
overtake  them  at  noonday  —  that  they  must  learn 
temperance  in  all  things,  and  never  forget  they  are  in 
the  midst  of  evils.  But  what  good  will  it  do  to  tell 
you  this.  You  never  will  have  forethought ;  and  though 
there  is  little  else  but  pains  and  misfortunes  in  life, 
you  go  on  as  reckless  of  all,  as  if  harm  could  never 
come  to  you." 

'*'  There  you  are  at  your  saws  again  !  I  tell  you 
what,  father  Abraham,  he  's  a  fool  who  is  always  busy 
making  troubles  for  himself,  when  there  is  no  danger 
but  what  he  will  have  enough  gratis.  I  've  weathered 
more  storms  than  will  ever  beat  on  your  head,  though 
I  have  not  sat  like  an  old  crow  foreboding  them  while 
the  sun  shines.  To  take  you  in  your  own  way,  I 
have  not  forgotten  what  I  read  when  a  boy,  '  Sufficient 
for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  My  creed  is,  'To 
enjoy  is  to  obey.'  And  I  can  say  more  than  can  be 
said  for  most  of  you,  I  make  my  faith  the  rule  of  my 
conduct,  and  take  care  to  act  up  to  it.  And  if  I  do 
sometimes  love  my  friends  so  much  as  to  forget  myself 
and  be  a  little  too  merry  with  them,  it  stirs  my  blood, 


A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN.  415 

and  I  am  all  the  better  for  it  the  next  day.  I  lose  no 
time  by  it,  for  it  is  all  done  up  at  night;  and  if  I  am 
not  quite  right,  my  children  will  have  a  warning  in 
me  at  home,  and  not  be  obliged  to  pull  their  neigh 
bours'  characters  to  pieces  to  mend  their  own  with. 
Besides,  it  is  as  well  to  have  a  failing  or  two,  to  keep 
the  world  in  good  humour  with  one;  for  nothing  puts 
people  out  more,  than  a  man's  being  too  good  for 
them.  And  what  would  come  of  all  my  virtues,  if 
they  only  made  men  enemies  to  me,  and,  so,  to  them 
selves? 

"  You  talk  about  my  children.  Why,  man,  do  n't 
they  owe  their  lives  to  me,  and  what 's  more,  don't  I 
teach  them  how  to  enjoy  life?  Would  you  have  me 
moan  over  them  all  day,  till  they  were  as  long-visaged 
as  saints  at  conventicle?  Stout-hearted,  full-blooded 
lads  !  —  and  you  would  have  them  crawling  along  as 
meek  and  pale  as  a  Philadelphia  patient  after  a  semi- 
weekly  slop-bleeding  !  Then  again,  there  's  my  wife: 
—  but  one  purse  between  us  and  no  questions  asked. 
Rides  or  walks  as  she  pleases;  and  not  a  word  about 
cost."  Here  Abraham  coloured.  "  I  'm  all  atten 
tion;  see  her  at  parties  abroad,  and  dine  with  her  at 
home  —  whenever  there  's  company.  She  orders 
what  suits  her,  and  is  undisputed  mistress  of  the 
household.  I  'm  always  pleased  to  see  her  inspirits; 
and  if  affairs  go  wrong,  and  she  's  in  ill  humour,  I 
take  care  not  to  put  any  restraint  upon  her  by  being 
in  the  way.  I  was  here  an  hour  earlier  than  usual 
to-night  because  the  servant  let  fall  the  tea-tray  and 
broke  half  a  dozen  tea-cups, —  and  as  1  have  missed 
my  tea,  thank  you  Mr.  B.  to  fill  my  glass." 

While  he  twirled  a  light,  silver-headed  cane  in  his 
right  hand,  he  reached  out  his  glass  with  his  left,  and 


416  A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN. 

I  began  filling  it.  At  this  critical  moment  the  dry, 
and  sallow  visage  of  Abraham,  caught  my  eye. 
Turned  partly  round,  and  leaning  forward,  contrary 
to  his  custom  —  for  he  seldom  looked  at  the  person 
he  was  talking  with,  —  his  eyes  were  fixed  steadfastly 
upon  the  rattle-headed  Tom,  with  that  mixed  expres 
sion  of  pity  and  imploring,  with  which  one  gazes  upon 
a  man  that  is  going  to  be  hanged:  —  if  Tom  was  just 
then  to  have  been  swung  off,  it  could  not  have  been 
more  mournful.  I  was  so  intent  upon  the  face  of 
Abraham,  that  I  forgot  what  I  was  about,  till  Tom, 
feeling  the  wine  running  over  his  hand,  and  moving 
suddenly,  brought  rne  to  myself.  Before  I  could 
mutter  an  apology,  he  caught  the  direction  of  my  eye, 
and  turning  towards  Abraham,  burst  out  into  a  loud 
laugh.  It  was  not  to  be  withstood.  Tom  had  broken 
the  enchantment;  and  in  spite  of  good  breeding  and 
good  feeling,  there  was  an  instant  roar  of  laughter 
through  the  room.  This  was  too  much  even  for  Abra 
ham;  he  sprang  upon  his  feet,  uttering  something 
between  a  mutter  and  a  curse,  (he  never  dared  swear 
out-right,)  and  twitching  down  his  hat,  which  had 
grown  nap-worn  and  round-edged  through  use,  and 
at  the  same  time  seizing  his  long,  slender,  oak  cane, 
with  something  like  a  threatening  motion,  he  darted 
out  of  the  room. 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak,  Tom  cried  out  —  "I  told 
him,  a  little  while  ago,  that  I  was  the  best  friend  he 
had  in  the  world,  and  I  shall  always  prove  so.  By 
putting  him  into  such  a  rage,  he  is  off  without  paying 
his  share  of  the  reckoning.  There  need  be  no  mak 
ing  up  between  us,  for  he  will  no  sooner  remember 
this,  than  he  will  forgive  me  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart.  Poor  fellow,  I  pity  him.  Nobody  ever  set 


A    LETTER   FROM   TOWN.  417 

out  with  fairer  prospects,  or  has  had  things  more  com 
fortable  about  him;  and  yet  he  is  the  most  forlorn 
being  living.  Didn't  you  hear  him  prose  just  now 
about  his  anxiety  for  his  children  ?  —  while  all  his  aim 
is  to  see  that  they  shall  be  no  happier  than  himself;  for 
he  takes  another's  enjoyment  as  a  reproach  upon  his 
own  self-made  misery.  And  as  to  his  care  about  their 
worldly  estate,  it  is  all  because  he  feels  their  posses 
sions  will  be,  in  a  sort,  his  even  after  death.  For  my 
part,  I  'm  content,  when  I  die,  to  give  up  all  my  claims 
to  those  I  leave  behind  me.  And  while  I  live,  I 
mean  to  make  them  and  myself  as  merry  as  we  can 
know  how  to  be." 

With  a  rap  upon  his  box,  and  shaking  the  snuff 
from  between  his  fingers,  Tom  ended  his  moral  lec 
ture;  and  with  a  well  satisfied  nod  of  the  head  took 
himself  off  to  wind  up  the  night  at  another  club, 
with  a  hand  at  whist. 

The  rest  of  the  company  soon  went  out,  one  after 
another,  without  any  noise,  like  sparks  upon  burnt 
paper,  leaving  my  old  friend  and  me  to  finish  the  bot 
tle.  Without  thinking  of  it,  we  at  the  same  moment 
drew  up  to  within  a  companionable  distance  of  each 
other;  and  while  carefully  pouring  a  little,  first  into 
my  glass  and  then  into  his,  that  we  might  share  alike, 
till  the  bottle  was  drained,  he  began  in  that  same  com 
posed  manner  and  low  voice  which  were  familiar  to 
me  some  years  ago,  by  observing,  that  though  Tom's 
last  remarks  might  seem  harsh  and  in  the  extreme  to 
me,  yet  he  feared  there  was  too  much  truth  in  them. 

"  I  knew  Abraham,"  said  he,  "  when  a  child.     He 

was  then  a  spare  lad,  with  a  wrinkled  brow,  and  weak, 

anxious  voice.     As  he  was  feeble,  his  mother  nursed 

him  up  with  caudles  and  a  tippet  —  bade  him  never 

27 


418  A    LETTER    FROM    TOWN. 

wet  his  feet,  and  taught  him  that  it  was  a  sin  to  soil 
his  clothes.  Thinking  him  not  fit  to  push  his  way  in 
the  world,  and  knowing  that  wealth  stands  one  well  in 
hand,  who  has  little  force  of  character  or  intellect, 
Ahraham  was  instructed,  like  other  careful  boys,  to 
get  himself  a  box  to  drop  his  money  in,  and  never  to 
spend  his  change  foolishly  on  holydays.  His  love  for 
every  thing  great  and  generous  being  destroyed  by 
his  attention  being  taken  up  with  little  things;  seeing 
another  so  much  concerned  about  him,  making  him 
overrate  his  own  importance;  and  being  continually 
anxious  about  his  money  and  health,  soon  centring  all 
his  thoughts  and  affections  in  self;  and,  with  all  his 
pains-taking,  finding  others  happier  than  he,  it  was 
not  long  before  he  became  a  discontented,  ill-natured 
man. 

*'  The  other  never  had  the  headach  in  his  life;  and 
fair  weather  or  foul,  it  mattered  little  with  him.  Con 
stitutionally  happy,  all  that  he  could,  he  turned  to 
enjoyment,  and  what  he  could  not,  he  let  alone.  So 
much  of  his  happiness  came  from  his  health,  that  he 
never  cared  for  the  more  abstract  pleasures  of  the 
mind;  and  with  that  triumphant,  joyous  feeling  which 
flows  from  full  blood,  he  began  with  looking  down 
upon  feeble  constitutions,  and  ended  with  a  contempt 
for  those  who  suffered  under  the  real  afflictions  of 
life.  From  the  same  cause,  he  apparently  takes  to 
those  who,  like  himself,  are  fond  of  merriment;  and 
really  supposes  himself  to  be  a  kind-hearted,  friendly 
fellow,  when  in  truth  he  cares  nothing  about  others, 
only  just  so  far  as  they  serve  to  make  up  a  part  of  his 
own  pleasures,  and  to  help  on  the  game  of  life.  Tom 
is  as  selfish  as  Abraham,  but  not  so  annoying,  because 
easy-natured.  You  may  think  I  should  allow  some 


A    LETTER   FROM    TOWN.  419 

praise  to  this  quality  of  character.  There  is  no  need 
of  it.  Men  will  always  give  it  its  full  due;  and  as 
for  its  opposite,  if  it  does  not  make  its  own  punish 
ment,  the  world  will  lay  it  on  with  no  sparing  hand. 

Here  our  wine  was  gone,  and  the  last  candle  was 
burning  in  the  socket.  We  took  our  hats,  and  laying 
our  reckoning  on  the  table,  walked  quietly  home  to 
my  friend's  house.  Yours, 

A.  B. 


KEAN'S  ACTING, 


"  For  doubtless,  that  indeed  according  to  art  is  most  eloquent,  which  turns 
and  approaches  nearest  to  nature,  from  whence  it  came." 

MILTON. 

"  Profest  diversions  !  cannot  these  escape  ? 


We  ransack  tombs  for  pastime  ;  from  the  dust 

Call  up  the  sleeping  hero  ;  bid  him  tread 

The  scene  for  our  amusement :  How  like  Gods 

We  sit ;  and,  wrapt  in  immortality, 

Shed  generous  tears  on  wretches  born  to  die  ; 

Their  fate  deploring,  to  forget  our  own  !  " 

YOUNG. 


IN  looking  over,  for  the  present  edition,  the  following 
article,  published  when  Kean  was  in  this  country,  the 
lines  which  I  have  quoted  from  Young  were  brought 
forcibly  to  my  mind.  There  was  something  painful 
to  me  in  my  own  words,  which  speak  of  him  as  living 
and  acting,  for  the  curtain  is,  indeed,  dropped  now; 
and  many,  who  heard  and  saw  him  then,  have  gone  to 
their  graves,  too.  It  is  startling  to  have  our  thoughts 
follow  into  eternity,  a  man  of  genius  and  fiery  pas 
sions;  for  there  needs  must  be  an  intensity  of  Life- 
there,  which  will  make  this  world's  existence  seem  to 
us,  as  we  look  back  upon  it,  little  more  than  a  dream 
of  life  —  a  beginning  to  be. 

What  a  sad  reflection  upon  our  nature  it  is,  that  an 


REAM'S  ACTING.  421 

amusement  so  intellectual  in  its  character,  as  seeing  a 
play  is,  and  capable  of  being  made  to  administer  so 
much  to  our  moral  state,  should  be  so  tainted  with  im 
purity —  that  the  theatre  should  be  a  place  where  con 
gregate  the  most  licentious  appetites  and  passions,  and 
from  which  is  breathed  out  so  foul  an  atmosphere. 
Such  as  it  is,  I  am  now  done  with  it.  I  would  sooner 
forego  the  intellectual  pleasure  I  might  receive  from 
another  Kean,(were  there  ever  to  be  another  Kean,) 
than  by  yielding  to  it,  give  countenance  to  vice,  by 
going  where  infecting  and  open  corruption  sits,  side 
by  side,  with  the  seemly. 

It  is  not  to  read  a  lecture  to  others,  but  that  I 
might  not  appear  to  approve  of  what  I  disapprove, 
that  I  have  written  these  few  lines;  preferring  to  do 
so,  to  introducing  any  essential  change  into  the  main 
article,  for  the  sake  of  adapting  it  to  my  present  views. 


I  HAD  scarcely  thought  of  the  theatre  for  several 
years,  when  Kean  arrived  in  this  country;  and  it 
was  more  from  curiosity  than  from  any  other  mo 
tive,  that  I  went  to  see,  for  the  first  time,  the  great 
actor  of  the  age.  I  was  soon  lost  to  the  recollection 
of  being  in  a  theatre,  or  looking  upon  a  grand  display 
of  the  "mimic  art."  The  simplicity,  earnestness, 
and  sincerity  of  his  acting  made  me  forgetful  of  the 
fiction,  and  bore  me  away  with  the  power  of  reality 
and  truth.  If  this  be  acting,  said  I,  as  I  returned 
home,  I  may  as  well  make  the  theatre  my  school,  and 
henceforward  study  nature  at  second  hand. 

How  can  I  describe  one  who  is  nearly  as  versatile 
and  almost  as  full  of  beauties  as  nature  itself —  who 
grows  upon  us  the  more  we  are  acquainted  with  him, 


422  KEAN'S  ACTING. 

and  makes  us  sensible  that  the  first  time  we  saw  him  in 
any  part,  however  much  he  may  have  moved  us,  we 
had  but  a  vague  and  poor  apprehension  of  the  many 
excellencies  of  his  acting.  We  cease  to  consider  it 
as  a  mere  amusement :  It  is  a  great  intellectual  feast ; 
and  he  who  goes  to  it  with  a  disposition  and  capacity 
to  relish  it,  will  receive  from  it  more  nourishment  for 
his  mind,  than  he  would  be  likely  to  in  many  other 
ways  in  four-fold  the  time.  Our  faculties  are  opened 
and  enlivened  by  it;  our  reflections  and  recollections 
are  of  an  elevated  kind;  and  the  very  voice  which  is 
sounding  in  our  ears  long  after  we  have  left  him, 
creates  an  inward  harmony  which  is  for  our  good. 

Keari,  in  truth,  stands  very  much  in  that  relation 
to  other  players  whom  we  have  seen,  that  Shakspeare 
does  to  other  dramatists.  One  player  is  called  clas 
sical;  another  makes  fine  points  here,  and  another 
there.  Kean  makes  more  fine  points  than  all  of  them 
together;  but,  in  him,  these  are  only  little  prominen 
ces,  showing  their  bright  heads  above  a  beautifully 
undulated  surface.  A  constant  change  is  going  on  in 
him,  partaking  of  the  nature  of  the  varying  scenes  he 
is  passing  through,  and  the  many  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  which  are  shifting  within  him. 

In  a  clear  autumnal  day  we  may  see,  here  and  there, 
a  deep  white  cloud  shining  with  metallic  brightness 
against  a  blue  sky,  and  now  and  then  a  dark  pine 
swinging  its  top  in  the  wind,  with  the  melancholy 
sound  of  the  sea;  but  who  can  note  the  shifting  and 
untiring  play  of  the  leaves  of  the  wood,  and  their 
passing  hues,  when  each  one  seems  a  living  thing 
full  of  delight,  and  vain  of  its  gaudy  attire?  A  sound, 
too,  of  universal  harmony  is  in  our  ears,  and  a  wide 
spread  beauty  before  our  eyes,  which  we  cannot  de- 


READ'S  ACTING. 


423 


fine  ;  yet  a  joy  is  in  our  hearts.     Our  delight  increases 
in  these,  day  after  day,  the  longer  we  give  ourselves 
to  them,  till  at  last  we  become,  as  it  were,  a  part  of 
the  existence  without  us.     So  it  is  with  natural  cha 
racters.     They  grow  upon  us  imperceptibly,  till  we 
become  fast  bound  up  in  them,  we  scarce  know  when 
or  how.     So  it  will  fare  with  the  actor  who  is  deeply 
filled  with  nature,  and  is  perpetually  throwing  off  her 
beautiful  evanescences.     Instead  of  becoming  tired  ot 
him,  as  we  do,  after  a  time,  of  others,  he  will  go  on, 
giving  something  which  will  be  new  to  the  observing 
mind;   and  will  keep  the  feelings  alive,  because  their 
action  will  be  natural.     I  have  no  doubt  that,  except 
ing  those  who  go  to  a  play  as  children  look  into  a 
show-box,  to  admire  and  exclaim  at  distorted  figures, 
and  raw,  unharmonious  colours,  there  is  no  man  of  a 
moderately  warm  temperament,   and  with  a  tolerable 
share  of  insight  into  human  nature,  who  would  not  find 
his  interest  in  Kean  increasing  with  a  study  of  him.     It 
is  very  possible  that  the  excitement  would  in  some  de 
gree  lessen,  but  there  would  be  a  quieter  delight,  in 
stead  of  it,  stealing  upon  him,  as  he  became  familiar 
with  the  character  of  his  acting. 

The  versatility  in  his  playing  is  striking.  He 
seems  not  the  same  being,  taking  upon  him  at  one 
time  the  character  of  Richard,  at  another  that  of 
Hamlet;  but  the  two  characters  appear  before  you  as 
distinct  individuals,  who  had  never  known  nor  heard 
of  each  other.  So  completely  does  he  become  the 
character  he  is  to  represent,  that  we  have  sometimes 
thought  it  a  reason  why  he  was  not  universally  better 
liked  here,  in  Richard;  arid  that  because  the  player 
did  not  make  himself  a  little  more  visible,  he  must 
needs  bear  a  share  of  our  hate  toward  the  cruel  king. 


424  KEAN'S  ACTING. 

And  this  may  the  more  be  the  case,  as  his  construc 
tion  of  the  character,  whether  right  or  wrong,  creates 
in  us  an  unmixed  dislike  of  Richard,  till  the  anguish 
of  his  mind  makes  him  the  object  of  pity;  from  which 
moment  to  the  close,  Kean  is  allowed  to  play  the  part 
better  than  any  one  has  before  him. 

In  his  highest  wrought  passion,  when  every  limb 
and  muscle  are  alive  and  quivering,  and  his  gestures 
hurried  and  violent,  nothing  appears  ranted  or  over 
acted;  because  he  makes  us  feel,  that  with  all  this, 
there  is  something  still  within  him  vainly  struggling 
for  utterance.  The  very  breaking  and  harshness  of 
his  voice  in  these  parts,  though  upon  the  whole  it 
were  better  otherwise,  help  to  this  impression  upon 
us,  and  make  up  in  a  good  degree  for  the  defect. 

Though  he  is  on  the  very  verge  of  truth  in  his  pas 
sionate  parts,  he  does  not  pass  into  extravagance;  but 
runs  along  the  dizzy  edge  of  the  roaring  and  beating 
sea,  with  feet  as  sure  as  we  walk  our  parlours.  We 
feel  that  he  is  safe,  for  some  preternatural  spirit  up 
holds  him  as  it  hurries  him  onward;  and  while  all  is 
uptorn  and  tossing  in  the  whirl  of  the  passions,  we 
see  that  there  is  a  power  and  order  over  the  whole. 

A  man  has  feelings  sometimes  which  can  only  be 
breathed  out;  there  is  no  utterance  for  them  in  words. 
I  had  hardly  written  this  when  the  terrible  and  indis 
tinct,  "  Ha!  "  with  which  Kean  makes  Lear  hail 
Cornwall  and  Regan,  as  they  enter,  in  the  fourth 
scene  of  the  second  act,  came  to  my  mind.  That  cry 
seemed  at  the  time  to  take  me  up,  and  sweep  me 
along  in  its  wild  swell.  No  description  in  the  world 
could  give  a  tolerably  clear  notion  of  it;  it  must  be 
formed,  as  well  as  it  may  be,  from  what  has  just  been 
said  of  its  effect. 


KEAN'S  ACTING.  425 

Kean's  playing  is  frequently  giving  instances  of 
various,  inarticulate  sounds  —  the  throttled  struggle 
of  rage,  and  the  choking  of  grief — the  broken  laugh 
of  extreme  suffering,  when  the  mind  is  ready  to  de 
liver  itself  over  to  an  insane  joy  —  the  utterance  of 
over-full  love,  which  cannot,  and  would  not  speak  in 
express  words  —  and  that  of  wildering  grief,  which 
blanks  all  the  faculties  of  man. 

No  other  player  whom  I  have  heard  has  attempted 
these,  except  now  and  then;  and  should  any  one 
have  made  the  trial  in  the  various  ways  in  which 
Kean  gives  them,  no  doubt  he  would  have  failed. 
Kean  thrills  us  with  them,  as  if  they  were  wrung  from 
him  in  his  agony.  They  have  no  appearance  of  study 
or  artifice.  The  truth  is,  that  the  labour  of  a  mind  of 
his  genius  constitutes  its  existence  and  delight.  It 
is  not  like  the  toil  of  ordinary  men  at  their  task-work. 
What  shows  effort  in  them,  comes  from  him  with  the 
freedom  and  force  of  nature. 

Some  object  to  the  frequent  use  of  such  sounds; 
and  to  others  they  are  quite  shocking.  But  those  who 
permit  themselves  to  consider  that  there  are  really 
violent  passions  in  man's  nature,  and  that  they  utter 
themselves  a  little  differently  from  our  ordinary  feel 
ings,  understand  and  feel  their  language,  as  they 
speak  to  us  in  Kean.  Probably  no  actor  ever  con 
ceived  passion  with  the  intenseness  and  life  that  he 
does.  It  seems  to  enter  into  him  and  possess  him,  as 
evil  spirits  possessed  men  of  old.  It  is  curious  to  ob 
serve  how  some,  who  have  sat  very  contentedly  year 
after  year,  and  called  the  face-making  which  they 
have  seen,  expression,  and  the  stage-stride,  dignity, 
and  the  noisy  declamation,  and  all  the  rhodomontade 
of  acting,  energy  and  passion,  complain  that  Kean  is 


426  KEAN'S  ACTING. 

apt  to  be  extravagant;  when  in  truth  he  seems  to  be 
little  more  than  a  simple  personation  of  the  feeling  or 
passion  to  be  expressed  at  the  time. 

It  has  been  so  common  a  saying,  that  Lear  is  the 
most  difficult  of  all  characters  to  personate,  that  we 
had  taken  it  for  granted  no  man  could  play  it  so  as  to 
satisfy  us.  Perhaps  it  is  the  hardest  to  represent. 
Yet  the  part  which  has  generally  been  supposed  the 
the  most  difficult,  the  insanity  of  Lear,  is  scarcely 
more  so  than  the  choleric  old  king.  Inefficient  rage 
is  almost  always  ridiculous;  and  an  old  man,  with  a 
broken  down  body  and  a  mind  falling  in  pieces  from 
the  violence  of  its  uncontrolled  passions,  is  in  constant 
danger  of  exciting,  along  with  our  pity,  a  feeling  of 
contempt.  It  is  a  chance  matter  to  which  we  are 
moved.  And  this  it  is  which  makes  the  opening  of 
Lear  so  difficult. 

We  may  as  well  notice  here  the  objection  which 
some  make  to  the  abrupt  violence  with  which  Kean 
begins  in  Lear.  If  this  is  a  fault,  it  is  Shakspeare, 
and  not  Kean,  who  is  to  blame.  For  we  have  no 
doubt  that  he  has  conceived  it  according  to  his  author. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  mistake  lies  in  this  case,  where 
it  does  in  most  others  — with  those  who  put  themselves 
into  the  seat  of  judgment  to  pass  upon  greater  men. 

In  most  instances,  Shakspeare  has  given  us  the 
gradual  growth  of  a  passion,  with  such  little  accom 
paniments  as  agree  with  it,  and  go  to  make  up  the 
whole  man.  In  Lear,  his  object  being  to  represent 
the  beginning  and  course  of  insanity,  he  has  properly 
enough  gone  but  a  little  back  of  it,  and  introduced  to 
us  an  old  man  of  good  feelings,  but  one  who  had  liv 
ed  without  any  true  principle  of  conduct,  and  whose 
ungoverned  passions  had  grown  strong  with  age,  and 


KEAN'S  ACTING.  427 

were  ready,  upon  any  disappointment,  to  make  ship 
wreck  of  an  intellect  always  weak.  To  bring  this 
about,  he  begins  with  an  abruptness  rather  unusual; 
and  the  old  king  rushes  in  before  us,  with  all  his 
passions  at  their  height,  and  tearing  him  like  fiends. 

Kean  gives  this  as  soon  as  a  fit  occasion  offers  it 
self.  Had  he  put  more  of  melancholy  and  depression, 
and  less  of  rage  into  the  character,  we  should  have 
been  very  much  puzzled  at  his  so  suddenly  going 
mad.  It  would  have  required  the  change  to  have 
been  slower;  and  besides,  his  insanity  must  have  been 
of  another  kind.  It  must  have  been  monotonous  and 
complaining,  instead  of  continually  varying;  atone 
time  full  of  grief,  at  another  playful,  and  then  wild  as 
the  winds  that  roared  about  him,  and  fiery  and  sharp 
as  the  lightning  that  shot  by  him.  The  truth  with 
which  he  conceived  this,  was  not  finer  than  his  exe 
cution  of  it.  Not  for  an  instant,  in  his  utmost  violence, 
did  he  suffer  the  imbecility  of  the  old  man's  anger  to 
touch  upon  the  ludicrous;  when  nothing  but  the  most 
just  conception  and  feeling  of  character  could  have 
saved  him  from  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lear  was  a  study  for  any  one 
who  would  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  workings 
of  an  insane  mind.  There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  Nor  is 
it  less  true,  that  the  acting  of  Kean  was  a  complete 
embodying  of  the  these  working.  His  eye,  when  his 
senses  are  first  forsaking  him,  giving  a  questioning 
look  at  what  he  saw,  as  if  all  before  him  was  under 
going  a  strange  and  bewildering  change  which  con 
fused  his  brain  —  the  wandering,  lost  motions  of  his 
hands,  which  seemed  feeling  for  something  familiar  to 
them,  on  which  they  might  take  hold  and  be  assured 
of  a  safe  reality  —  the  under  monotone  of  his  voice, 


428  KEAN'S  ACTIXG. 

as  if  he  was  questioning  his  own  being,  and  all  which 
surrounded  him  —  the  contiguous,  but  slight  oscillat 
ing  motion  of  the  body  —  all  these  expressed,  with 
fearful  truth,  the  dreamy  state  of  a  mind  fast  unset 
tling,  and  making  vain  and  weak  efforts  to  find  its 
way  back  to  its  wonted  reason.  There  was  a  childish, 
feeble  gladness  in  the  eye,  and  a  half  piteous  smile 
about  the  mouth  at  times,  which  one  could  scarce 
look  upon  without  shedding  tears.  As  the  derange 
ment  increased  upon  him,  his  eye  lost  its  notice  of 
what  surrounded  him,  wandering  over  everything  as 
if  he  saw  it  not,  and  fastening  upon  the  creatures  of 
his  crazed  brain.  The  helpless  and  delighted  fond 
ness  with  which  he  clings  to  Edgar  as  an  insane 
brother,  is  another  instance  of  the  justness  of  Kean's 
conceptions.  Nor  does  he  lose  the  air  of  insanity, 
even  in  the  fine  moralizing  parts,  and  where  he  in 
veighs  against  the  corruptions  of  the  world:  There  is 
a  madness  even  in  his  reason. 

The  violent  and  immediate  changes  of  the  passions 
in  Lear,  so  difficult  to  manage  without  offending  us, 
are  given  by  Kean  with  a  spirit  and  with  a  fitness  to 
nature  which  we  had  hardly  imagined  possible.  These 
are  equally  well  done  both  before  and  after  he  loses 
his  reason.  The  most  difficult  scene,  in  this  respect, 
is  the  last  interview  between  Lear  and  his  daughters, 
Goneril  and  Regan  —  (and  how  wonderfully  does 
Kean  carry  it  through!  )  —  the  scene  which  ends  with 
the  horrid  shout  and  cry  with  which  he  runs  out  mad 
from  their  presence,  as  if  his  very  brain  had  taken 
fire. 

The  last  scene  which  we  are  allowed  to  have  of 
Shakspeare's  Lear,  for  the  simply  pathetic,  was  played 
\>y  Kean  with  unmatched  power.  We  sink  down 


KEAN'S  ACTING.  429 

helpless  under  the  oppressive  grief.  It  lies  like  a 
dead  weight  upon  our  bosoms.  We  are  denied  even 
the  relief  of  tears;  and  are  thankful  for  the  startling 
shudder  that  seizes  us  when  he  kneels  to  his  daughter 
in  the  deploring  weakness  of  his  crazed  grief. 

It  is  lamentable  that  Kean  should  not  be  allowed 
to  show  his  unequalled  powers  in  the  last  scene  of 
Lear,  as  Shakspeare  has  written  it;  and  that  this 
mighty  work  of  genius  should  be  profaned  by  the 
miserable,  mawkish  sort  of  by-play  of  Edgar's  and 
Cordelia's  loves:  Nothing  can  surpass  the  imper 
tinence  of  the  man  who  made  the  change,  but  the 
folly  of  those  who  sanctioned  it. 

When  I  began,  I  had  no  other  intention  than  that 
of  giving  a  few  general  impressions  made  upon  me 
by  Kean's  acting;  but,  falling  accidentally  upon  his 
Lear,  I  have  been  led  into  more  particulars  than  I 
was  aware  of.  It  is  only  to  take  these  as  some  of  the 
instances  of  his  powers  in  Lear,  and  then  to  think  of 
him  as  not  inferior  in  his  other  characters,  and  a 
slight  notion  may  be  formed  of  the  effect  of  Kean's 
playing  upon  those  who  understand  and  like  him. 
Neither  this,  nor  all  I  could  say,  would  reach  his 
great  and  various  powers. 

Kean  is  never  behind  his  author;  but  stands  for 
ward  the  living  representative  of  the  character  he  has 
drawn.  When  he  is  not  playing  in  Shakspeare,  he 
fills  up,  where  his  author  is  wanting,  and  when  in 
Shakspeare,  he  gives  not  only  what  is  set  down,  but 
whatever  the  situation  and  circumstances  attendant 
upon  the  being  he  personates,  would  naturally  call 
forth.  He  seems,  at  the  time,  to  have  possessed  him 
self  of  Shakspeare's  imagination,  and  to  have  given  it 


430  KEAN'S  ACTING. 

body  and  form.  Read  any  scene  of  Shakspeare  — 
for  instance,  the  last  of  Lear  that  is  played,  and  see 
how  few  words  are  there  set  down,  and  then  remem 
ber  how  Kean  fills  it  out  with  varied  and  multiplied 
expressions  and  circumstances,  and  the  truth  of  this 
remark  will  be  obvious  at  once.  There  are  few  men, 
I  believe,  let  them  have  studied  the  plays  of  Shaks 
peare  ever  so  attentively,  who  can  see  Kean  in  them 
without  confessing  that  he  has  helped  them  almost  as 
much  to  a  true  conception  of  the  author,  as  their  own 
labours  had  done  for  them. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  in  what  character  Kean  plays 
best.  He  so  fits  himself  to  each  in  turn,  that  if  the 
effect  he  produces  at  one  time,  is  less  than  at  another, 
it  is  because  of  some  inferiority  in  stage-effect  in  the 
character.  Othello  is  probably  the  greatest  character 
for  stage-effect;  and  Kean  has  an  uninterrupted  power 
over  us,  in  playing  it.  When  he  commands,  we  are 
awed;  when  his  face  is  all  sensitive  with  love,  and 
love  thrills  in  his  soft  tones,  all  that  our  imaginations 
had  pictured  to  us  is  realized.  His  jealousy,  his  hate, 
his  fixed  purposes,  are  terrific  and  deadly;  and  the 
groans  wrung  from  him  in  his  grief,  have  the  pathos 
and  anguish  of  Esau's,  when  he  stood  before  his  old, 
blind  father,  and  sent  up  "an  exceeding  bitter  cry." 

Again,  in  Richard,  how  does  he  hurry  forward  to 
his  object,  sweeping  away  all  between  him  and  it! 
The  world  and  its  affairs  are  nothing  to  him,  till  he 
gains  his  end.  He  is  all  life,  and  action,  and  haste  — 
he  fills  every  part  of  the  stage,  and  seems  to  do  all 
that  is  done. 

I  have  before  said  that  his  voice  is  harsh  and  break 
ing  in  his  high  tones,  in  his  rage,  but  that  this  defect 
is  of  little  consequence  in  such  places.  ]\Tor  is  it  well 


KEAN'S  ACTING.  431 

suited  to  the  more  declamatory  parts.  This,  again, 
is  scarce  worth  considering;  for  how  very  little  is 
there  of  mere  declamation  in  good  English  plays! 
But  it  is  one  of  the  finest  voices  in  the  world  for  all 
the  passions  and  feelings  which  can  be  uttered  in  the 
middle  and  lower  tones.  In  Lear  — 

"  If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it." 

And  again, 

"  You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  o'  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss." 

Why  should  I  cite  passages?  Can  any  man  open 
upon  the  scene  in  which  these  are  contained,  without 
Kean's  piteous  looks  and  tones  being  present  to  him? 
And  does  not  the  mere  remembrance  of  them,  as  he 
reads,  bring  tears  into  his  eyes?  Yet,  once  more,  in 
Othello  — 

"  Had  it  pleased  heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction,"  &c. 

In  the  passage  beginning  with  — 

"  O  now  for  ever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind," 

there  was  "  a  mysterious  confluence  of  sounds  "  pass 
ing  off  into  infinite  distance,  and  every  thought  and 
feeling  within  him  seemed  travelling  with  them. 

How  very  graceful  he  is  in  Othello.  It  is  not  a 
practised,  educated  grace,  but  the  "unbought  grace" 
of  his  genius,  uttering  itself  in  its  beauty  and  grandeur 
in  each  movement  of  the  outward  man.  When  he 
says  to  lago  so  touchingly,  "  Leave  me,  leave  me, 
lago,"  and  turning  from  him,  walks  to  the  back  of  the 
stage,  raising  his  hands,  and  bringing  them  down  upon 
his  head,  with  clasped  fingers,  and  stands  thus  with 


432  KEAN'S  ACTING. 

his  back  to  us,  there  is  a  grace  and  an  imposing 
grandeur  in  his  figure  which  we  gaze  on  with  admira 
tion. 

Talking  of  these  things  in  Kean,  is  something  like 
reading  the  "  Beauties  of  Shakspeare;  "  for  he  is  as 
good  in  his  subordinate,  as  in  his  great  parts.  But 
he  must  be  content  to  share  with  other  men  of  genius, 
and  think  himself  fortunate  if  one  in  a  hundred  sees 
his  lesser  beauties,  and  marks  the  truth  and  delicacy 
of  his  under  playing.  For  instance;  when  he  has  no 
share  in  the  action  going  on,  he  is  not  busy  in  putting 
himself  into  attitudes  to  draw  attention,  but  stands  or 
sits  in  a  simple  posture,  like  one  with  an  engaged 
mind.  His  countenance  is  in  a  state  of  ordinary  re 
pose,  with  only  a  slight,  general  expression  of  the 
character  of  his  thoughts;  for  this  is  all  the  face  shows, 
when  the  mind  is  taken  up  in  silence  with  its  own  re 
flections.  It  does  not  assume  marked  or  violent  ex 
pressions,  as  in  soliloquy.  When  a  man  gives  utter 
ance  to  his  thoughts,  though  alone,  the  charmed  rest 
of  the  body  is  broken;  he  speaks  in  his  gestures  too, 
and  the  countenance  is  put  into  a  sympathizing  action. 

I  was  first  struck  with  this  in  his  Hamlet;  for  the 
deep  and  quiet  interest,  so  marked  in  Hamlet,  made 
the  justness  of  Kean's  playing,  in  this  respect,  the 
more  obvious. 

Since  then,  I  have  observed  him  attentively,  and 
have  found  the  same  true  acting  in  his  other  charac 
ters. 

This  right  conception  of  situation  and  its  general 
effect,  seems  to  require  almost  as  much  genius  as  his 
conceptions  of  his  characters.  He  deserves  praise 
for  it;  for  there  is  so  much  of  the  subtilty  of  nature 
in  it,  if  I  may  so  speak,  that  while  a  very  few  are  able 


KEAN'S  ACTING.  433 

from  his  help  to  put  themselves  into  the  situation,  and 
admire  the  justness  of  his  acting  in  it,  the  rest,  both 
those  who  like  him  upon  the  whole,  as  well  as  those 
who  profess  to  see  little  that  is  good  in  him,  will  be 
very  apt  to  let  it  pass  by  them,  without  observing  it. 

Like  most  men,  however,  Kean  receives  a  partial 
reward,  at  least,  for  his  sacrifice  of  the  praise  of  the 
many,  to  what  he  thinks  the  truth.  For  when  he  passes 
from  the  state  of  natural  repose,  even  into  that  of  gen 
tle  motion  and  ordinary  discourse,  he  is  at  once  rilled 
with  a  spirit  and  life  which  he  makes  every  one  feel 
who  is  not  armour  proof  against  him.  This  helps  to 
the  sparkling  brightness  and  warmth  of  his  playing; 
the  grand  secret  of  which,  like  that  of  colours  in  a 
picture,  lies  in  a  just  contrast.  We  can  all  speculate 
concerning  the  general  rules  upon  this;  but  when  the 
man  of  genius  gives  us  their  results,  how  few  are 
there  who  can  trace  them  out  with  an  observant  eye, 
or  look  with  a  full  pleasure  upon  the  grand  whole. 
Perhaps  this  very  beauty  in  Kean  has  helped  to  an 
opinion,  which,  no  doubt,  is  sometimes  true,  that  he 
is  too  sharp  and  abrupt.  For  I  well  remember,  while 
once  looking  at  a  picture  in  which  the  shadow  of  a 
mountain  fell,  in  strong  outline,  upon  a  stream,  I  over 
heard  some  quite  sensible  people  expressing  their 
wonder  that  the  artist  should  have  made  the  water  of 
two  colours,  seeing  it  was  all  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Instances  of  Kean's  keeping  of  situations  were  very 
striking  in  the  opening  of  the  trial  scene  in  the  Iron 
Chest,  and  in  Hamlet,  when  the  father's  ghost  tells 
the  story  of  his  death. 

The  determined  composure  to  which  he  is  bent  up 
in  the  first,  must  be  present  with  every  one  who  saw 
him.  And,  though  from  my  immediate  purpose,  shall 
28 


434 


I  pass  by  the  startling  and  appalling  change,  when 
madness  seized  upon  his  brain,  with  the  deadly  swift 
ness  and  power  of  a  fanged  monster?  Wonderfully  as 
this  last  part  was  played,  we  cannot  well  imagine  how 
much  the  previous  calm,  and  the  suddenness  of  the 
unlocked  for  change  from  it  added  to  the  terror  of  the 
scene.  —  The  temple  stood  fixed  on  its  foundations; 
the  earthquake  shook  it,  and  it  was  a  heap.  —  Is  this 
one  of  Kean's  violent  contrasts? 

While  Kean  listened,  in  Hamlet,  to  the  father's 
story,  the  entire  man  was  absorbed  in  deep  attention, 
mingled  with  a  tempered  awe.  His  posture  was  quite 
simple,  with  a  slight  inclination  forward.  The  spirit 
was  the  spirit  of  his  father  whom  he  had  loved  and 
reverenced,  and  who  was  to  that  moment  ever  present 
in  his  thoughts.  The  first  superstitious  terror  at  meet 
ing  him  had  passed  off.  The  account  of  his  father's 
appearance  given  him  by  Horatio  and  the  watch,  and 
his  having  followed  him  some  distance,  had,  in  a 
degree  familiarized  him  to  the  sight,  and  he  stood 
before  us  in  the  stillness  of  one  who  was  to  hear,  then 
or  never,  what  was  to  be  told,  but  without  that  eager 
reaching  forward  which  other  players  give,  and  which 
would  be  right,  perhaps,  in  any  character  but  that  of 
Hamlet,  who  always  connects,  with  the  present,  the 
past  and  what  is  to  come,  and  mingles  reflection  with 
his  immediate  feelings,  however  deep. 

As  an  instance  of  Kean's  familiar,  and,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  term,  domestic  acting,  the  first  scene  in 
the  fourth  act  of  his  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  may  be 
taken.  His  manner  at  meeting  Lovell,  and  through 
the  conversation  with  him,  the  way  in  which  he  turns 
his  chair,  and  leans  upon  it,  were  all  as  easy  and 
natural  as  they  could  have  been  in  real  life,  had  Sir 


435 

Giles  been  actually  existing,  and  engaged,  at  that  mo 
ment,  in  conversation  in  Lovell's  room. 

It  is  in  these  things,  scarcely  less  than  in  the  more 
prominent  parts  of  his  playing,  that  Kean  shows  him 
self  the  great  actor.  He  must  always  make  a  deep 
impression;  but  to  suppose  the  world  at  large  capable 
of  a  right  estimate  of  his  various  powers,  would  be 
forming  a  judgment  against  every-day  proof.  The 
gradual  manner  in  which  the  character  of  his  playing 
has  opened  upon  me,  satisfies  me  that  in  acting,  as  in 
every  thing  else,  however  great  may  be  the  first  effect 
of  genius  upon  us,  we  come  slowly,  and  through  study, 
to  a  perception  of  its  minute  beauties  and  fine  char 
acteristics;  and  that,  after  all,  the  greater  part  of  men 
seldom  get  beyond  the  first  vague  and  general  impres 
sion. 

As  there  must  needs  go  a  modicum  of  fault-finding 
along  with  commendation,  it  may  be  proper  to  remark, 
that  Kean  plays  his  hands  too  much  at  times,  and 
moves  ab'out  the  dress  over  his  breast  and  neck  too 
frequently  in  his  hurried  and  impatient  passages, — 
that  he  does  not  always  adhere  with  sufficient  accuracy 
to  the  received  readings  of  Shakspeare,  and  that  the 
effect  would  be  greater  upon  the  whole,  were  he  to 
be  more  sparing  of  sudden  changes  from  violent  voice 
and  gesticulation  to  a  low  conversation  tone  and 
subdued  manner. 

His  frequent  use  of  these  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is 
with  great  effect,  for  Sir  Giles  is  playing  his  part;  so, 
too,  in  Lear,  for  Lear's  passions  are  gusty  and  shifting; 
but,  in  the  main,  it  is  a  kind  of  playing  too  marked 
and  striking  to  bear  frequent  repetition,  and  had  bet 
ter  sometimes  be  spared,  where,  considered  alone,  it 
might  be  properly  enough  used,  for  the  sake  of  bring-* 
ing  it  in  at  some  other  place  with  greater  effect. 


436  KEAN'S  ACTIING. 

It  is  well  to  speak  of  these  defects,  for  though  the 
little  faults  of  genius,  in  themselves  considered,  but 
slightly  affect  those  who  can  enter  into  its  true  char 
acter,  yet  such  persons  are  made  impatient  at  the 
thought,  that  an  opportunity  is  given  those  to  carp 
who  know  not  how  to  commend. 

Though  I  have  taken  up  a  good  deal  of  room,  I 
must  end  without  speaking  of  many  things  which  oc 
cur  to  me.  Some  will  be  of  the  opinion  that  I  have 
already  said  enough.  Thinking  of  Kean  as  I  do,  I 
could  not  honestly  have  said  less;  for  I  hold  it  to  be 
a  low  and  wicked  thing  to  keep  back  from  merit  of 
any  kind  its  due,  —  and  with  Steele,  that  "there  is 
something  wonderful  in  the  narrowness  of  those  minds 
which  can  be  pleased,  and  be  barren  of  bounty  to 
those  who  please  them." 

Although  the  self-important,  out  of  self-concern,  give 
praise  sparingly,  and  the  mean  measure  theirs  by 
their  likings  or  dislikings  of  a  man,  and  the  good  even 
are  often  slow  to  allow  the  talents  of  the  faulty  their 
due,  lest  they  bring  the  evil  into  repute,  yet  it  is  the 
wiser  as  well  as  the  honester  course,  not  to  take  away 
from  an  excellence,  because  it  neighbours  upon  a 
fault,  nor  to  disparage  another  with  a  view  to  our  own 
name,  nor  to  rest  our  character  for  discernment  upon 
the  promptings  of  an  unkind  heart.  Where  God  has 
not  feared  to  bestow  great  powers,  we  may  not  fear 
giving  them  their  due;  nor  need  we  be  parsimonious 
of  commendation,  as  if  there  were  but  a  certain  quan 
tity  for  distribution,  and  our  liberality  would  be  to 
our  loss;  nor  should  we  hold  it  safe  to  detract  from 
another's  merit,  as  if  we  could  always  keep  the  world 
blind;  lest  we  live  to  see  him,  whom  we  disparaged, 
praised;  and  whom  we  hated,  loved. 


KEAN'S  ACTING.  437 

Whatever  be  his  failings,  give  every  man  a  full 
and  ready  commendation  for  that  in  which  he  excels; 
it  will  do  good  to  our  own  hearts,  while  it  cheers  his. 
Nor  will  it  bring  our  judgment  into  question  with  the 
discerning;  for  strong  enthusiasm  for  what  is  great 
does  not  argue  such  an  unhappy  want  of  discrimina 
tion,  as  that  measured  and  cold  approval,  which  is 
bestowed  alike  upon  men  of  mediocrity,  and  upon 
those  of  gifted  minds. 


DOMESTIC   LIFE. 


O,  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life. — 

COWPER. 


IT  is  for  a  short  part  of  life  only  that  the  world  is  a 
wonder  and  delight  to  us,  and  its  events  so  many  causes 
of  admiration  and  joy.  The  mist  of  morning  soon 
breaks  into  little  wreaths,  and  is  lost  in  the  air;  and 
the  objects  which  it  drest  in  new  beauties,  are  found 
to  be  things  of  our  common  notice.  It  passes  off 
from  the  earth,  and  the  fairy  sea  is  swallowed  up,  and 
the  green  islands,  scattered  far  and  wide  over  it,  are 
again  turned  into  tall  trees  and  mountain  brushwood. 

In  early  life  we  are  for  ever  giving  objects  the  hue 
that  best  pleases  us,  and  shaping  and  enlarging  them 
as  suits  our  imagination.  But  the  time  comes  when 
we  must  look  upon  the  unsightly  without  changing  it, 
and  when  the  hardness  of  reality  makes  us  feel  that 
there  are  things  not  to  be  moulded  to  our  fancies. 
Men  and  their  actions  were  figured  to  our  minds  in 
extremes.  Giants  and  dwarfs  peopled  the  world  and 
filled  it  with  deeds  of  heroic  virtue  and  desperate  vice. 
All  that  we  looked  forward  to  kept  our  spirits  alive, 
and  our  imagination  found  food  for  our  desires.  At 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  439 

one  time,  we  were  vainglorious  at  our  victories  over 
magnificent  crimes  ;  at  another,  bearing  up  firmly 
against  oppression,  with  the  honest  and  tried. 

We  come  at  length  into  the  world,  and  find  men 
too  busy  about  their  own  affairs,  to  make  those  of 
another  their  concern,  and  too  careful  of  themselves, 
to  go  a  tilting  for  another's  rights.  Even  the  bad 
have  a  mixture  in  their  character  which  takes  away 
its  poetic  effect,  and  we  at  last  settle  down  in  the  dull 
conviction,  that  we  are  -never  to  meet  with  entire  and 
splendid  virtue,  or  unmixed  vice.  With  this  sudden 
•check  upon  our  feelings,  we  may  live  in  the  world 
disappointed  and  estranged  from  it;  or  become  like 
others,  cold  and  wise,  putting  on  timidity  for  caution, 
and  selfishness  for  prudence;  be  guarded  in  speech, 
and  slow  in  conduct,  seeing  the  wrong,  yet  afraid  of 
condemning  it.  Or,  shaking  ourselves  loose  from 
this  hypocrisy  of  life,  we  may  let  go  with  it  the  virtues 
it  mimics,  and  despising  the  solemn  ostent  and  for 
malities  of  society,  may  break  through  its  restraints, 
and  set  its  decencies  at  defiance.  Or,  too  wise  to  be 
vicious,  and  too  knowing  to  be  moved,  we  may  look 
with  complacent  unconcern  upon  what  we  hold  to  be 
the  errors  of  the  world;  forbearing  to  shake  the  faith 
of  the  religious,  because  it  has  its  social  uses,  or  to 
point  out  the  fallacies  of  moral  codes,  because  they 
serve  to  the  same  end. 

The  virtuous  tendencies  of  our  youth  might  in  this 
way  run  to  vice,  and  our  early  feelings  grow  cold, 
were  there  not  in  us  affections  of  a  quieter  nature, 
resting  on  objects  simple  and  near  at  hand,  receiving 
more  happiness  from  one  being  than  from  a  thousand, 
and  kindling  a  light  within  us,  making  one  spot  a 
perpetual  brightness,  and  secretly  cheering  us  through 


440  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

life.  These  affections  are  our  domestic  attachments, 
which  are  refreshed  every  morning,  and  grow  daily 
under  a  gentle  and  kindly  warmth,  making  a  com 
panionship  for  what  is  lonely,  at  the  same  time  leav 
ing  it  all  the  distinctness  and  intenseness  of  our 
highest  solitary  joys.  We  may  suffer  all  the  hopes 
and  expectations  which  shot  up  wild  and  disorderly 
in  our  young  imaginations,  to  live  about  our  homes  ; 
and  leaving  them  their  savour  and  bright  hues,  may  sort 
each  with  its  kind,  and  hedge  them  round  with  the  close 
and  binding  growth  of  family  attachments.  It  is  true, 
that  this  reality  has  a  narrower  range,  and  an  evener 
surface,  than  the  ideal;  yet  there  is  a  rest,  and  an  as 
sured  and  virtuous  gladness  in  it,  which  make  an 
harmonious  union  of  our  feelings  and  our  fancies. 

Home  gives  a  certain  serenity  to  the  mind,  so  that 
every  thing  is  well  marked,  and  sparkling  in  a  clear 
atmosphere,  and  the  lesser  beauties  are  brought  out 
to  rejoice  in  the  pure  glow  which  floats  over  and  be 
neath  them  from  the  earth  and  sky.  In  this  state  of 
mind  afflictions  come  to  us  chastened;  and  if  the 
wrongs  of  the  world  cross  us  in  our  door-path  we  put 
them  aside  without  anger.  Vices  are  every  where 
about  us,  not  to  lure  us  away,  nor  make  us  morose, 
but  to  remind  us  of  our  frailty,  and  keep  down  our 
pride.  We  are  put  into  a  right  relation  with  the 
world;  neither  holding  it  in  proud  scorn,  like  the  soli 
tary  man,  nor  being  carried  along  by  shifting  and  hur 
ried  feelings,  and  vague  and  careless  notions  of  things, 
like  the  world's  man.  We  do  not  take  novelty  for 
improvement,  or  set  up  vogue  for  a  rule  of  conduct; 
neither  do  we  despair,  as  if  all  great  virtues  had  de 
parted  with  the  years  gone  by,  though  we  see  new 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  441 

vices,  frailties  and  follies  taking  growth  in  the  very 
light  which  is  spreading  through  the  earth. 

Our  safest  way  of  coming  into  communion  with 
mankind  is  through  our  own  household.  For  there 
our  sorrow  and  regret  at  the  failings  of  the  bad  is  in 
proportion  to  our  love,  while  our  familiar  inter 
course  with  the  good  has  a  secretly  assimilating  in 
fluence  upon  our  characters.  The  domestic  man  has 
an  independence  of  thought  which  puts  him  at  ease 
in  society,  and  a  cheerfulness  and  benevolence  of  feel 
ing  which  seems  to  ray  out  from  him,  and  to  diffuse 
a  pleasurable  sense  over  those  near  him  like  a  soft, 
bright  day.  As  domestic  life  strengthens  a  man's 
virtue,  so  does  it  help  to  a  sound  judgment,  and  a 
right  balancing  of  things,  and  gives  an  integrity  and 
propriety  to  the  whole  character.  God,  in  his  good 
ness,  has  ordained  that  virtue  should  make  its  own 
enjoyment,  and  that  wherever  a  vice  or  frailty  is 
rooted  out,  something  should  spring  up  to  be  a  beauty 
and  delight  to  the  mind.  But  a  man  of  a  character 
rightly  cast,  has  pleasures  at  home,  which,  though 
fitted  to  his  highest  nature,  are  common  to  him  as  his 
daily  food.  He  moves  about  his  house  under  a  con 
tinued  sense  of  them,  and  is  happy  almost  without 
heeding  it. 

Women  have  been  called  angels,  in  love-tales  and 
sonnets,  till  we  have  almost  learned  to  think  of  angels 
as  little  better  than  women.  Yet  a  man  who  knows 
a  woman  thoroughly,  and  loves  her  truly —  and  there 
are  women  who  may  be  so  known  and  loved — will 
find,  after  a  few  years,  that  his  relish  for  the  grosser 
pleasures  is  lessened,  and  that  he  has  grown  into  a 
fondness  for  the  intellectual  and  refined  without  an 


442  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

effort,  and  almost  unawares.  He  has  been  led  on  to 
virtue  through  his  pleasures;  and  the  delights  of  the 
eye,  and  the  gentle  play  of  that  passion  \vhich  is  the 
most  inward  and  romantic  in  our  nature,  and  which 
keeps  much  of  its  character  amidst  the  concerns  of 
life,  have  held  him  in  a  kind  of  spiritualized  existence: 
he  shares  his  very  being  with  one  who,  a  creature  of 
this  world,  and  with  something  of  the  world's  frailties,  is 

yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright, 

With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

Wordsworth. 

With  all  the  sincerity  of  a  companionship  of  feeling, 
cares,  sorrows,  and  enjoyments,  her  presence  is  as 
the  presence  of  a  purer  being,  and  there  is  that  in  her 
nature  which  seems  to  bring  him  nearer  to  a  better 
world.  She  is,  as  it  were,  linked  to  angels,  and  in 
his  exalted  moments,  he  feels  himself  held  by  the 
same  tie. 

In  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  a  woman  has  a  greater 
influence  over  those  near  her  than  a  man.  While  our 
feelings  are,  for  the  most  part,  as  retired  as  anchorites, 
hers  are  in  constant  play  before  us.  We  hear  them 
in  her  varying  voice;  we  see  them  in  the  beautiful 
and  harmonious  undulations  of  her  movements,  in  the 
quick  shifting  hues  of  her  face,  in  her  eye,  glad  and 
bright,  then  fond  and  suffused  :  Her  whole  frame  is 
alive  and  active  with  what  is  at  her  heart,  and  all  the 
outward  form  speaks.  She  seems  of  a  finer  mould 
than  we,  and  cast  in  a  form  of  beauty,  which,  like  all 
beauty,  acts  with  a  moral  influence  upon  our  hearts; 
and  as  she  moves  about  us,  we  feel  a  movement 
within,  which  rises  and  spreads  gently  over  us,  har 
monizing  us  with  her  own.  —  And  can  any  man  listen 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  443 

to  this?     Can  his  eye  rest  upon  this,  day  after  day, 
and  he  not  be  touched,  and  be  made  better? 

The  dignity  of  a  woman  has  its  peculiar  character: 
it  awes  more  than  that  of  man.  His  is  more  physical, 
bearing  itself  up  with  an  energy  of  courage  which  we 
may  brave,  or  a  strength  which  we  may  struggle 
against  :  he  is  his  own  avenger,  and  we  may  stand 
the  brunt.  A  woman's  has  nothing  of  this  force  in  it: 
it  is  of  a  higher  quality,  too  delicate  for  mortal  touch. 

There  is  a  propriety,  too,  in  a  woman's  mind,  a 
kind  of  instinctive  judgment,  which  leads  us  along 
in  a  right  way,  and  that  so  gently,  and  by  such  a  con 
tinuous  run  of  little  circumstances,  that  we  are  hardly 
conscious  we  are  not  going  on  in  our  own  course. 
She  helps  to  cure  our  weaknesses  better  than  man, 
because  she  sees  them  quicker,  because  we  are  more 
ready  to  show  her  those  which  are  hid,  and  because 
advice  comes  from  her  without  its  air  of  superiority, 
and  reproof  without  its  harshness. 

Men  who  feel  deeply,  show  little  of  their  deepest 
feelings  to  each  other.  But,  besides  the  close  union 
and  common  interests  and  concerns  between  husband 
and  wife,  a  woman  seems  to  be  a  creature  peculiarly 
ordained  for  a  man  to  lay  open  his  heart  to,  and  share 
its  joys  with,  and  to  be  a  comforter  to  his  griefs.  Her 
voice  soothes  us  like  music;  she  is  our  light  in  gloom 
and  our  sun  in  a  cold  world.  In  time  of  affliction  she 
does  not  come  to  us  like  man,  who  lays  by,  for  the  hour, 
his  proper  nature  to  give  us  relief.  She  ministers  to 
us  with  a  hand  so  gentle,  and  speaks  in  a  voice  so 
calm  and  kind,  and  her  very  being  is  so  much  in  all 
she  does,  that  she  seems  at  the  moment  as  one  born 
only  for  the  healing  of  our  sorrows,  and  for  a  rest  to  our 


444  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

cares.  And  the  man  to  whom  such  a  being  is  sent 
for  comfort  and  support,  must  be  sadly  hard  and  de 
praved,  if  he  does  not  feel  his  inward  disturbance  sink 
ing  away,  and  a  quietude  stealing  through  his  frame. 

The  relations  of  parents  arid  children  are  the  holiest 
in  our  lives;  and  there  are  no  pleasures,  or  cares,  or 
thoughts,  connected  with  this  world,  which  reminds 
us  so  soon  of  another.  The  helpless  infancy  of  chil 
dren  sets  our  own  death  before  us,  when  they  will  be 
left  to  a  world  to  which  we  would  not  trust  ourselves; 
and  the  thought  of  the  character  they  may  take  in 
after  life,  brings  with  it  the  question,  what  awaits 
them  in  another.  Though  there  is  a  melancholy  in 
this,  its  seriousness  has  a  religious  tendency.  And 
the  responsibility  which  a  man  has  laid  himself  under, 
begets  a  resoluteness  of  character,  a  sense  that  this 
world  was  not  made  to  idle  in,  and  a  feeling  of  dignity 
that  he  is  acting  for  a  great  end.  How  heavily  does 
one^toil  who' labours  only  for  himself;  and  how  is  he 
cast  down  by  the  thought  of  what  a  worthless  crea 
ture  it  is  all  for  ! 

We  have  heard  of  the  sameness  of  domestic  life. 
He  must  have  a  dull  head  and  little  heart  who  grows 
weary  of  it.  A  man  who  moralizes  feelingly,  and  has 
a  proneness  to  see  a  beauty  and  fitness  in  all  God's 
works,  may  find  daily  food  for  his  mind  even  in  an 
infant.  In  its  innocent  sleep,  when  it  seems  like  some 
blessed  thing  dropped  from  the  clouds,  with  tints  so 
delicate,  and  with  its  peaceful  breathing,  we  can 
hardly  think  of  it  as  of  mortal  mould,  it  looks  so  like 
a  pure  spirit  made  visible  for  our  delight. 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  says  Words 
worth.  And  who  of  us,  that  is  not  too  good  to  be  con- 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  445 

scious  of  his  own  vices,  who  has  not  felt  rebuked  and 
humbled  under  the  clear  and  open  countenance  of  a 
child?  — who  that  has  not  felt  his  impurities  foul  upon 
him  in  the  presence  of  a  sinless  child?  These  feelings 
make  the  best  lesson  that  can  be  taught  a  man ;  and  tell 
him  in  a  way,  which  all  else  he  has  read  or  heard,  never 
could,  how  paltry  is  all  the  show  of  intellect  compared 
with  a  pure  and  good  heart.  He  that  will  humble 
himself  and  go  to  a  child  for  instruction,  will  come 
away  a  wiser  man. 

If  children  can  make  us  wiser,  they   surely   can 
make  us  better.     There  is  no  one  more  to  be  envied 
than  a  goodnatured  man  watching  the   workings   of 
children's  minds,  or  overlooking  their  play.     Their 
eagerness,  curious  about  every  thing,  making  out  by 
a  quick  imagination  what  they  see  but  a  part  of — 
their  fanciful  combinations  and  magic  inventions,  cre 
ating  out  of  ordinary  circumstances,  and  the  common 
things  which  surround  them,  strange  events  and  little 
ideal  worlds,  and  these  all  working  in  mystery  to  form 
matured  thought,  is  study  enough  for  the  most  acute 
minds,  and  should  teach  us,  also,  not  too   officiously 
to  regulate  what  we  so  little   understand.     The   still 
musing  and  deep  abstraction  in  which  they  sometimes 
sit,  affect  us  as  a  playful  mockery   of  older  heads. 
These  little  philosophers  have  no  foolish  system,  with 
all   its    pride    and    jargon,    confusing    their    brains. 
Theirs  is  the  natural  movement  of  the  soul,  intense 
with  new  life,  and  busy  after  truth,  working  to  some 
purpose,  though  without  a  noise. 

When  children  are  lying  about  seemingly  idle  and 
dull,  we,  who  have  become  case-hardened  by  time 
and  satiety,  forget  that  they  are  all  sensation,  that 


446  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

their  outstretched  bodies  are  drinking  in  from  the 
common  sun  and  air,  that  every  sound  is  taken  note 
of  by  the  ear,  that  every  floating  shadow  and  passing 
form  come  and  touch  at  the  sleepy  eye,  and  that  the 
little  circumstances  and  the  material  world  about  them 
make  their  best  school,  and  will  be  the  instructers 
and  formers  of  their  characters  for  life. 

And  it  is  delightful  to  look  on  and  see  how  busily 
the  whole  acts,  with  its  countless  parts  fitted  to  each 
other,  and  moving  in  harmony.  There  are  none  of 
us  who  have  stolen  softly  behind  a  child  when  labour 
ing  in  a  sunny  corner,  digging  a  lilliputian  well,  or 
fencing  in  a  six-inch  barn-yard,  and  listened  to  his 
soliloquies,  and  his  dialogues  with  some  imaginary  be 
ing,  without  our  hearts  being  touched  by  it.  Nor  have 
we  observed  the  flush  which  crossed  his  face  when 
finding  himself  betrayed,  without  seeing  in  it  the  deli 
cacy  and  propriety  of  the  after  man. 

A  man  may  have  many  vices  upon  him,  and  have 
walked  long  in  a  bad  course,  yet  if  he  has  a  love  of 
children,  and  can  take  pleasure  in  their  talk  and  play, 
there  is  something  still  left  in  him  to  act  upon  —  some 
thing  which  can  love  simplicity  and  truth.  I  have  seen 
one  in  whom  some  low  vice  had  become  a  habit,  make 
himself  the  plaything  of  a  set  of  riotous  children,  with 
as  much  delight  in  his  countenance  as  if  nothing  but 
goodness  had  ever  been  expressed  in  it;  and  have  felt 
as  much  of  kindness  and  sympathy  toward  him,  as  I 
have  of  revolting  toward  another,  who  has  gone 
through  life  with  all  due  propriety,  with  a  cold  and 
supercilious  bearing  towards  children,  which  makes 
them  shrinking  and  still.  I  have  known  one  like  the 
latter,  attempt,  with  uncouth  condescension,  to  court 
an  openhearted  child3  who  would  draw  back  with  an 


DOMESTIC    LIFE.  447 

instinctive  aversion;  and  I  have  felt  as  if  there  were 
a  curse  upon  him.  Better  to  be  driven  out  from 
among  men,  than  to  be  disliked  of  children. 

When  my  heart  has  been  full  of  joy  and  good-will 
at  the  thought  of  the  blessings  of  home,  and  at  the 
remembrance  that  the  little  which  is  right  within  me 
was  learned  there — when  I  have  reflected  upon  the 
nature  of  my  enjoyments  abroad,  and  cast  them  up, 
and  found  them  so  few,  and  have  then  turned  home 
again,  and  have  seen  that  its  pleasures  were  my  best 
lessons  of  virtue,  and  as  countless  as  good,  I  have 
thought  that  I  could  talk  of  it  for  ever.  It  is  not  so. 
Though  the  feeling  of  home  never  wearies,  because 
kind  offices,  and  the  thousand  little  ways  in  which 
home  attachments  are  always  uttering  themselves, 
keep  it  fresh  and  full  in  its  course;  yet  the  feeling  it 
self,  and  that  which  feeds  it,  have  a  simplicity  and 
unity  of  character  of  which  little  is  to  be  told,  though 
they  are  always  with  us. 

It  may  be  thought  that  something  should  be  said  of 
the  influence  of  domestic  associations  on  a  child,  and 
on  its  filial  attachments.  I  would  not  overcast  the 
serenity  I  now  feel  by  calling  up  the  days  when  I  was  a 
boy;  when  the  spirits  were  unbroken,  and  the  heart  pure, 
when  the  past  was  unheeded,  and  the  future  bright; 
I  would  not  do  this,  to  be  pained  with  all  that  has 
gone  amiss  in  my  later  days  —  to  remember  how 
poorly  1  have  borne  the  ills  of  life,  and  how  thankless 
has  been  rny  spirit  for  its  good. 

It  is  needless  to  talk  of  the  afflictions  of  domestic 
life.  Those  which  Providence  sends,  come  for  onr 
good,  and  their  best  consolations  are  found  in  the 
abode  into  which  they  enter.  Of  the  troubles  which 
we  make  to  ourselves,  we  have  no  right  to  complain.. 


448  DOMESTIC    LIFE. 

Ill-sorted  marriages  will  hardly  bring  agreement,  and 
from  those  of  convenience  will  hardly  come  love. 
But  when  the  deep  and  tranquil  enjoyment,  the  light 
and  playful  cheerfulness,  the  exaltation  of  feeling,  and 
the  clear  calm  of  thought,  which  belong  to  those  who 
know  each  other  entirely,  and  have  by  nature  some 
thing  of  the  romance  of  love  in  them,  are  all  told, 
then  will  I  speak  of  the  troubles  of  home. 


NOTES. 


P.  6.  stanza  14,  and  Preface  to  '  The  First  Edition  of  the 
Poems.'  — In  that  passage  in  Lycidas,  which  fills  us  with  such 
awe ,  Milton  says  - 

" the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount, 

Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold." 
Although  the  cases  are  not  quite  parallel,  I  hope  I  shall  not 
be  thought  extravagant  in  calling  upon  old  Merlin,  a  being 
supposed  to  be  endowed  with  supernatural  powers,  to 

1  Hear  the  shout  from  Spam.' 

On  the  above  passage  in  Milton,  see  Todd's  edition,  notes,  and 
among  the  Preliminary  Notes,  the  interesting  one, —  "Mount 
St.  Michael." 

Preface  to  <  The  First  Edition  of  the  Poems.' — The  felicity 
and  truth  of  Lord  Byron's  expression  in  relation  to  the  octo 
syllabic  verse,  (quoted  by  me  in  the  last  paragraph  but  one, 
of  the  above  Preface.)  left  that  expression  impressed  upon  my 
mind  after  the  exception  made  by  him  was  so  far  forgotten,  that 
when  reminded  of  it  by  some  newspaper  notice  of  my  poems, 
I  knew  not  where  to  turn  to  in  Byron,  for  the  passage.  Hav 
ing  since  found  it,  I  give  it  entire.  —  "  Scott  alone,  of  the  pre 
sent  generation,  has  hitherto  completely  triumphed  over  the 
fatal  facility  of  the  octo-syllabic  verse ;  and  this  is  not  the  least 
victory  of  his  fertile  and  mighty  genius." 

After  this  opinion  from  the  great  modern  master  of  English 
verse,  respecting  that  wonderful  man,  it  may  be  thought  that 
it  would  have  become  me  better  to  have  altogether  omitted,  at 
this  time,  the  passage  in  the  Preface.  And  I  would  gladly  have 
done  so,  could  I  have  done  so  honestly,  after  my  oversight,  and 
while  my  convictions  remained  unchanged.  The  newspaper 
notice  to  which  I  have  referred,  and  which  the  passage  in  Byron 
29 


450  NOTES. 

• 

has  kept  in  my  mind,  insinuates,  if  I  rightly  recollect,  that 
I  used  so  much  of  Byron  as  made  for  my  opinion,  and  pur 
posely  omitted  the  rest.  Had  the  writer  of  that  article  known 
me,  he  would  not  have  said  this ;  and  not  knowing  me,  he  should 
not  have  presumed  it. 

As  this  is  a  question  of  mere  common  fair-dealing  with  the 
reader,  I  need  make  no  apology  for  the  length  of  the  note. 


P.  60.  It  has  been  suggested  to  me  that  my  allusiori  to 
the  story  of  '  Cobbler  Stout,'  may  not  be  understood  by  those 
born  since  my  nursery  days.  Were  it  not  too  long,  I  would 
insert  it  here,  for  the  benefit  of  such  persons.  The  effect  which 
the  Cobbler's  treatment  had  upon  the  Little  Egg-woman,  (the 
nature  of  which  treatment  my  allusion  will  sufficiently  explain,) 
in  leading  her  to  question  herself  upon  her  personal  identity,  the 
means  which  she  took  to  solve  so  important  a  question,  and  the 
melancholy  conclusion  to  which  these  brought  her,  that  she  was 
not  her  self,  or,  to  use  her  own  words, 

'  Sure,'  .  .  .  .  t  this  is  none  of  I ! '  — 

all  serve  to  render  it  not  only  a  tale  of  deep  interest  to  the 
general  reader,  but  also  one  well  worthy  the  study  of  the  acute 
controvertists  in  high  matters,  of  the  present  day. 


14  DAY  USE 


-I  JO 


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